


Commander Dameron Takes a Wife

by Draco_sollicitus



Series: Force and Fortitude: Regency Star Wars [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, DameRey, Early marriage, F/M, Fluff, Past Assault/Abuse, Referenced Assault, Romance, Sequel, Smut, Star Wars comes to Netherfield Park, austen au, regency au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-04-24 21:31:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14364108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draco_sollicitus/pseuds/Draco_sollicitus
Summary: After a lengthy period of misunderstandings and separations, Poe and Rey Dameron finally wed and begin to enjoy their early marriage.Faced with several trials and the ghosts of their past, the Damerons consistently find in each other a source of support and sympathy. Already deeply in love, their marriage allows the two souls to develop and experience a depth of understanding and trust rarely found in this galaxy, or the next.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Individual warnings posted for each chapter, as always!
> 
> This chapter has warnings for brief mention of past violence/assault (Rey has bad memories), and implied marital intimacy.

It is a commonly accepted fact that the excitement of romance is limited specifically to the precious time before the legal union of two souls in the eyes of God and country. Once wed, couples are known to fade into creatures of habit, of discontent, and of lowered excitement and expectation, for the rest of their days. Marriage, it would seem, is an enterprise entirely without joy, only to be entered into for the security of finances and the production of children.

Happily enough, this knowledge was not entrusted to Poe Dameron nor his darling wife, for two weeks into their marriage they were still content enough with one another that it was an occasion of sadness when the commander took his leave for a month, traveling to London to finish his business with His Royal Majesty’s Navy.

It was with great sorrow that Commander Dameron kissed his wife on a June morning in the year 18—, and it was with great sorrow that Rey Dameron waved to her husband from the front step as the carriage bore him away.

The servants would comment for years to come on the moment when the carriage halted, some three hundred yards down the drive, for Commander Dameron to leap out and sprint back to the great house of Yavin to kiss his wife one last time in clear sight of many witnesses. They would also comment that the already beloved Mrs. Dameron blushed to the high heavens and swatted her husband on the arm, scolding him for the display of affection, only to pull him back by the coattails of his jacket and kiss him once more.

The Damerons, it would seem, were not well acquainted with many of the assumptions regarding married couples and their happiness.

***

Poe Dameron swears under his breath and kicks his trunk as he paces the small rowhouse he is occupying for the month.

Not month after all, it would seem, as he has just been informed that he must extend his visit for an extra two weeks. His first act after hearing the news had been to pen a melancholic letter to his wife, full of miserable expressions such as, _there is no light in my life without you, sunbeam,_ and _the days are abysmally long without you by my side, and the nights, worse._

Poe sighs heavily and sits on his bed, hand covering his mouth. He debates fleeing from the next series of meetings, but Ben Solo had arrived this afternoon with a particular request for Poe’s presence at his audience with Admiral Ackbar. Poe had been witness to a First Order attack roughly half a year prior, and he and his crew were the sole survivors. He has valuable information regarding Reginald Snoke, black-hearted merchant, and his men’s involvement in the First Order.

It is important, he knows, almost vital to the survival of the Navy and the nation for him to see justice done, and it is for his fallen friends and their own ships that he remains.

But God Almighty forgive him for wishing to gnash his teeth at the thought of two more weeks without his wife.

When he falls asleep that evening, he closes his eyes and imagines his wife lying  next to him – the idea of her, surely already asleep in their own bed, settles his stomach significantly, and Poe drifts off with the auditory memory of her soft, even breathing flowing through his ears, the most pleasant ghost he has ever known.

**

It is a pleasant Tuesday afternoon, some six weeks after Poe‘s departure, and Rey walks the grounds with the orange and white hound who is her husband’s closest companion, excluding Benjamin Solo.

Bartleby trots next to her, tongue lolling out of his mouth, grumbling in some way or another whenever she asks him a question.

For instance, “Bartleby, do you think those flowers are native to this part of England?” is met with a “hraoowwow” from her four-legged friend. Rey nods sagely in response to his answer.

They explore the estate together for a calm hour, and near the edge of the property, Rey spies a grove of trees perfect for climbing.

Rey squints up into the light, ignoring Bartleby’s insistent nose against her hand. “Oh, hush,” she tells the dog when it whimpers at her, brown eyes limpid, after she grips the lower branch of the tree. “Hush, Bee!” Bartleby, seemingly appeased by the affectionate name, sits down and looks at her anxiously, but does not bay or bark to alert someone of Rey’s impropriety.

She giggles and hoists herself up on the branch, her feet coming to light upon the bark. She’s at level with many of the nearby branches, so she cannot see far; Rey continues to climb, and climb, until she nears the top of the oak. Perhaps thirty feet from the ground, she surveys the nearby countryside with great interest; in the distance is Alderaan, she realizes with a pang of nostalgia in her heart. To the east, she pretends that she can see London, where her husband has gone, her hand coming to shade her eyes against the warm, early August sun.

A flock of birds passes by, and Rey beams at them while they float past her on wings of brown and grey. Not for the first time, she wishes she could fly, wishes she too, could take wing and exit the pull of the earth against her, shed her bonds to the ground and live among the stars.

A pretty thought, but not a sensible one. Rey reprimands herself, and some quarter mile away, she spies a horse and buggy coming up the drive towards Yavin: it must be Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, come to call on their neighbor. She sighs – they are no doubt here to visit Mr. Dameron, who insisted that she call him Papa—but still, as wife to Mr. Dameron’s son, she should make an appearance in Poe’s absence.

The bark is rough and pleasantly warm against the skin of her palms on her descent, and she marvels at the sensation. It is not entirely unlike the way her husband’s beard scratches her skin at the end of the day, and she flushes at a sensory memory of that same beard rubbing upon the inside of her leg.  

Perhaps this distraction is the cause for her foot slipping on the bark as she lowers herself from the branch. Luckily, she is but five feet from the ground because her grip loosens without any further provocation, and Rey finds herself subject to the whims of gravity, not for the first time in her life. She lands on her shoulder, the breath forced from her lungs quite painfully. “Bugger,” Rey mutters, and then smiles. Another memory of her husband, who finds creative ways to swear always, and even more creative ways to apologize to his wife for swearing in her presence.

Bartleby is upon her in the next instant, tail wagging and nose searching along her form for injury. “I am quite alright, Bartleby,” she informs the worried dog. “Save for some bruises, there is not much the matter with me.” To demonstrate, she sits up, wincing at the ache in her shoulder. “I will not tell a soul if you do not tell a soul,” she promises Bartleby, who barks in confirmation. He stands, militant, at her side, allowing her to grip his shoulder and pull herself to her feet.

“Well,” she sighs, prodding at what is sure to be a wicked line of bruises upon her upper back, “we must be glad the master is away, or he would most likely be quite put out about this.” Bartleby barks again, and Rey laughs, picking up her skirts and running down the path towards Yavin, her husband’s sweet dog at her heels.

**

Precisely forty-four days, twelve hours, and sixteen minutes to the last time he held his wife, Poe Dameron rides up the lane to Yavin.

He left the carriage in town, as a wheel had become loose and no one was available to repair it until morning. There was no chance in this world or the next that he would delay seeing Rey a moment longer, and he rode on, with the intention to send a man into town tomorrow to handle the repairs.

Poe is received warmly by his father and is informed that his wife has already retired for the evening, as it is past nine.

“We missed you, my son,” Kes says, hands on either side of Poe’s face.

“I missed you too, papa,” Poe smiles and embraces his father. Kes will retire to Spain in two months, with the hope that the warm air would improve his lungs and stave off another attack of pneumonia this winter. This will be good for his father’s health, he knows, but he still can feel a preliminary sadness in losing his father’s company.

Now that he is no longer required to be at his naval post, Poe will begin to run the estate of Yavin, an idea that makes him nervous despite his father’s careful preparation of him these past ten years. Kes and Poe discuss the last six weeks briefly, before Kes walks to his study and Poe can retire to his room.

Poe climbs the stairs, wearily. He’s been gone a full two weeks longer than intended, and God above, his heart aches from the prolonged separation from his darling sunbeam. His bedroom window faces towards the front of the grounds, and he had not seen a light on as he rode up the drive; he privately hopes that he will not disturb his wife if he climbs into bed next to her. All he wants to do is take off his damn boots, wash his face, and hold his wife. Surely, God will grant him these  mercies.

When he opens his door, Poe experiences a moment of panic unlike any he has ever known, more potent even than the time his ship sank in a battle with pirates.

His bed is empty; the fireplace cold. His wife is not here. _Could I have imagined the last months?_ He wonders. _Did Rey Kenobi never consent to be my wife, did she never share my bed? Have I gone mad_?

“She’s in her room, sir,” Mrs. Kalonia says, startling him. She had walked up behind him in the hallway, the sound of her footsteps masked by the carpet. “The lady said she didn’t feel right using the master’s bedroom while he was away, and has slept in her room every night since your absence.”

“That is absurd,” Poe protests. “She can use any room she wishes – she could sleep in the kitchen, if that is what the lady preferred -- surely you told her that.”

Mrs. Kalonia fixes him with a glare that makes him feel three feet tall again. Poe winces and nods, remembering that his wife, while sweet and kind, makes the most spirited horse look tame; when Rey Kenobi has made her mind up, nothing short of an act of God can induce her to change it.

But she is Rey Dameron now, Poe thinks crossly as he strides down the hallway. And Rey _Dameron_ uses her husband’s rooms when he is away, because Rey Dameron understands how powerfully her husband loves her, how overwhelmingly he cherishes her, how strongly he respects her.

He grips his hair in remorse. If Rey does not understand this, it is his fault, not hers: he must convince her of these facts, and beg her to never quit their bed. It was the thought of her in the privacy of their rooms, lying in his bed with her unbound hair spread upon his pillow, which had given him strength the last weeks during their cruel and prolonged separation. Poe breathes in deeply through his nose and knocks, gently, on his wife’s door.

Briefly cursing the idea that he’d ever even assigned rooms to her – she must think he wants her to use them, he thinks grimly, remembering their wedding night when she quaked with fear for having fallen asleep next to him, convinced that he wanted her out of the bed if and when they were not consummating their union – Poe remembers that it is well into the night hours, and he may not get a response from inside.

He opens the door slowly, not wishing to wake her, but wanting to see her if he can.

Rey slumbers, but not peacefully. Her face works against some great anxiety, her hair thrown over her face, hand over her head, gripping the pillow. It is for this reason that he does not feel guilt in crossing the room, striding to her side and kneeling upon the floor so he can take the hand not occupied in her unconscious stress.

“Rey,” he whispers, stroking the soft skin of her knuckles. “My sunbeam, wake up.”

His beloved’s eyes flutter open, and she smiles at him sleepily. “Hello, husband,” she greets him, low voice musical and soft, his favorite voice in the world, the most perfect sound imaginable.

“I am sorry to wake you, Mrs. Dameron,” he says, voice still soft. “But I had to see you.”

“Mmm,” she hums, eyes closing again. “I do not mind. This is a good dream.”

Poe laughs because she is perfect, and lovely, and even these quiet, stolen moments with her do much to settle his heart in a way he has not felt in weeks. “It is not a dream at all, sunbeam. I am here with you.”

Her hazel eyes open truly at that, and she sits up, weight resting upon her elbow. The movement causes the sheet to fall from her body, and Poe swallows at the sight of her in nothing but her chemise, the fabric slipping down her narrow shoulder to reveal an expanse of creamy yet freckled skin that he knows, all too well, tastes of sunshine and berries. He prays to God for strength enough to not pull himself up onto the bed and re-acquaint himself with the feeling of his wife’s skin under his tongue.

“You are truly here?” Rey asks, eyes wide. “This is not a dream – you have come back to me?”

His arousal is immediately forgotten in the wake of his wife’s genuine pleasure and surprise at seeing him. “Yes, love. Tell me, why are you not in our room?”

Rey falls back upon her pillow, and raises her hand to pull through his unkempt hair. Her nails upon his scalp feels too good to be a reality. “It did not feel right to be there without you,” she confesses. “I missed you too much to sleep.”

“Perhaps we can remedy that?” Poe offers, heart swelling from her admission. “If the lady finds it agreeable.”

“The lady does,” Rey smiles, eyes beginning to fall shut again. “But I fear I do not have the strength to walk.”

“Then I shall carry you,” he says gallantly. She smiles again in response, and Poe stands, pulling her towards him and picking her up, arms cradling her perfect body to his own.

She is lighter than air in his arms, but he worries that he grabbed her too roughly when she groans slightly as he pulls her from the bed. Poe adjusts his grip and waits for her to scold him, but once settled, her face smooths out once more, and he kisses the top of her head while he walks out of her room and towards his own.

Rey is determined to surprise him, he discovers when they enter the master bedroom. “Poe,” Rey whispers, stroking her hand over the planes of his chest in a fashion that has him catching his breath in shock. _“Te he echado de menos_ , Poe.”

“What?” He pauses, ten paces from his – _their,_ he must assure her, in the morning, that it is _their_ s, truly – bed. “What did you say, my love?”

“Te he echado de menos,” She cracks her eye open to look at him, her countenance still ruled by sleep. “Did I say it wrong, darling?”

“No,” he assures her. “No, my sunbeam, that was perfect. I have missed you, as well.” He sits upon the bed, not wanting to let her go yet. Poe kisses her brow, the slope of her nose, and briefly, her lips. “I missed you so much, Rey. Tell me, where did you learn that phrase?”

“Papa was kind enough to teach me,” she says, burrowing into his chest further, as though she could wrap herself in him, and truly he wishes she could. Hearing her sweet voice call his father “papa” has Poe blinking away tears that he prays his wife is too tired to notice. “He taught me several other phrases that I found useful.”

Slowly, Poe kicks off his boots, always keeping one hand upon his wife so she does not fall. He slides back on the mattress, carefully moving Rey until they’re both lying down, most of her weight still on his body: her physical presence is a comfort like he has not known for weeks on end. He kisses the top of her head reverently and hums, a strong surge of contentment washing over him, leaving him warm, loose-limbed, pleasantly ready to sleep. “Will you tell me another, then, my sunbeam?”

“ _Te amo_ ,” she says simply, kissing his chest, sighing as sleep overcomes her once more. “ _Te amo, mi amor_.”

“I love you, too,” he whispers, staring down at her. Rey’s small hand is over his heart, her head cushioned by his chest. “I love you, deeply. _Te amo, te quiero, te adoro_.”

A moment later, her breathing comes heavier, her face slackened. Poe does not know when he follows his love into sleep, but he know he has not slept this well since he last quit their bed. He is no longer a Navy man; he can focus on the estate, his wife, and hopefully, eventually, someday, their family.

**

When she awakens before the dawn, Rey entertains the thought of weeping for joy at the sight of her husband next to her, still asleep. Poe’s handsome face is so close to her own, but Rey contents herself with kissing his chest in the hopes that she will not wake him.

It is a fruitless hope, of course, and soon he shudders awake, and smiles down at her. “Was the bed to your liking, Mrs. Dameron?” He teases her. Rey blushes and nods, tracing senseless patterns along his chest and abdomen. After a brief moment, he tenses and then grabs her hand, lips twitching. “Do you mean to torture me, Rey?”

“Maybe,” Rey laughs. “Is it working?”

“Completely,” Poe answers. “But you will find that I will answer any of your questions, my love. I am entirely at your mercy, always.”

“Now that you no longer have the regimen promised by a military lifestyle, I must take over to ensure you do not fall prey to chaos and disorder,” Rey informs him primly.

“A more formidable master there has never been,” Poe says, almost too solemn to be teasing. “You shall make an impossibly talented mother, my sunbeam.” Poe twists next to her, bringing his lips to where her neck and shoulder meet, kissing the skin lightly while tugging on her shift.

“Poe,” Rey whispers, face burning in shame. “I must tell you something.”

He pulls away, immediately, looking mortified. “Forgive me, my love,” he begs. “I should not have touched you without permission.”

“No,” Rey shakes her head, reaching up to touch his stubble-roughened cheek. “Darling, that is not the issue. I am the issue.”

“What?” Poe looks at her, aghast. “How--?”

“I am not – in a desirable condition,” Rey admits, terrified of his response.

The look of confusion on his face would be amusing under any other circumstance, she knows, but still she grinds her teeth in high anxiety. “Rey,” Poe says slowly. “Are you…are you ill?”

Her health is a particularly difficult subject to her husband: after he was presumed dead this past winter, she had become almost lethally ill from the grief, refusing to eat or leave bed for days on end. Since their marriage, Poe has admitted to nightmares, dreams that plague him where he was too late in his return from sea to see her, to convince her that he still lived, riding up the drive to Alderaan only to discover her cold in her bed, lost to him forever.

Poe has wept into her shoulder upon waking from those dreams, and Rey understands, truly, how sensitive he is to any indication of poor health in her. But still, she hates to tell him of her failure – he has been honest with her, she reasons. She must repay him in kind.

“No, Poe,” she shakes her head, and he seems to breathe again. “No. But I have failed you. I am not with child.” Her courses had come three weeks after his departure, and she had wept for almost a full day at the sight of the blood.

She cries again now, and Poe kisses her gently, wiping the tears away with his thumb. “Rey,” he murmurs into her jaw, “Rey, do not cry, and do not fret. This is not a failure, do not think that of yourself.” He noses down her neck and kisses the base of her throat. “Not every sexual encounter leads to a child. My own parents did not have me for almost three years into their marriage.”

Rey despises her lack of knowledge in some areas, and she had always thought sexual intimacy led to children. Hearing that pregnancy is not the only consequence of intercourse calms her slightly. While she reflects on this new information, Poe kneels upon the bed and smiles at her, cheekily. “But there is something I think we could do, if you desired a child.”

“What do you think we should do?” Rey asks, anxiously. To her surprise, her husband runs his hands along the bottom of her shift, and she nods her permission for him to lift it away from her body.

“I suppose we shall simply have to try again,” he sighs. “Heavens, what a burden.” Poe kisses down the planes of her stomach, pausing briefly to whirl his tongue along her hipbone in a manner that causes her to arch and mewl.

He only briefly kisses around her belly, which causes Rey to huff in impatience – it is a true miracle that she does not throw off propriety entirely, tangle her fingers in her husband’s hair, and direct him to where he should go.

When he kisses a determined line down her thigh, to her foot, and back up again, Rey remembers to ask, “And what, pray tell, are you doing, husband?”

“I was gone for so long,” he murmurs into her thigh, which he has resumed kissing. “And I now intend on re-familiarizing myself with every inch of your glorious body. Is that acceptable to the lady?”

She pretends to consider, before laughing lightly and acquiescing. Poe hums, his thumbs pressing gently on her hipbones, and continues his quest.

He insists on lifting her leg and bending it, catching her by the back of her thigh to bring her skin to where he wants it. “I love you,” he groans into the back of her knee, and Rey blushes as he drags his tongue from the curve of the joint inward, towards her center.

“Poe,” she moans, writhing under his attentive care. “Poe, please.”

“Only a few minutes more, my love. If you would lie on your stomach, so I could greet your back.” Poe smiles at her warmly, and she takes a deep breath and complies.

 _This is my husband,_ she tells herself, breathing calmly as she can. _This is our bed. He loves me. This is different._ Rey turns her body over to oblige his request, and stares down at the pillows.

Then, she remembers, too late.

“Rey.” Her husband’s voice is low, serious. “Rey, what happened?”

Rey had forgotten, in the overpowering tumult of emotion from seeing her husband, that she had fallen from the tree not five days ago, bruising her back fiercely. She flips over once more, and in her haste bumps against the mattress perhaps more forcefully than she intended. Her answering wince seems to be too much for her husband, who looks thunderous.

“I am sorry, Poe,” Rey says miserably. She almost calls him ‘commander,’ but bites her tongue, remembering how little her husband likes to hear his title when he believes her to be upset or afraid. And she is afraid, now, of the indiscernible look on his face.

“What happened, sunbeam?” Poe asks, again. “Did – did someone hurt you?” The look of agony on his face is too much, and Rey swallows against her own answering misery. There is so much her husband does not know of her, does not know of her past – but, she does not think she can tell him of it, yet. One day. But today – no. She cannot.

But she will tell him the truth. “No, my darling.” He relaxes, visibly, and Rey smiles at him; she moves to sit up, but he shakes his head and lies down next to her, holding his hands over her body nervously, as if afraid to touch her. “No, I –” she blushes, embarrassed of the truth. “I was climbing a tree and I fell. Only five feet, and I was able to walk, so I did not wish to alarm anyone.”

“You did not tell my father?” Poe asks, almost angry in his indignation. “Rey, he could have called the doctor for you.”

“I did not need the doctor,” Rey protests. “I have had far worse injuries, and this is not a real problem.” Poe shudders, horrified at the knowledge, and Rey take his hand and kisses the knuckles, praying it will calm him slightly.

“Please, allow me to call on Doctor Andor so he can confirm your assessment,” Poe begs.

“Doctor Andor is awfully cautious,” Rey groans. “He confined me to bed rest for three weeks after merely being thrown from a horse.” Poe’s expression is once more thunderous, and Rey knows why; no doubt his mind has gone to that afternoon, when Armitage Hux had accidentally caused her near-fatal accident.

“Nonetheless, I shall send a servant into town to fetch him at once.” Poe rises from bed, and Rey frowns: this is a far less enjoyable direction for their morning to take. But, now that he knows her to be injured, her husband will be near-impossible to convince of her ability to perform her marital duties (not that she considers the pleasantness of their intimacy to be an arduous duty in any way).

“Am I to have two Spaniards fussing over me today?” Rey grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest and then shifting to sit up. She hisses in pain when she hits her back the wrong way, again, and Poe swoops back down upon her like a bird of prey.

“If you do not lie still and wait for him to arrive, I shall inform my father of your wounds, and then you will have _three_ Spaniards fussing over you,” he threatens. “I will return as soon as I alert the manservant, my love. Please, rest.” He kisses her forehead lovingly, and despite her huff of annoyance, Rey basks in the attention and care with which her husband showers her.

When he returns some ten minutes later with her breakfast upon a well-laden tray, she does manage to convince him to come back to bed, and with a very thoughtful argument, convinces him to resume their activities from before.

“It will not be so awful if we go slowly,” she suggests, sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes at him coquettishly.

Rey smiles in victory when Poe surrenders with a groan; they experience such a pleasant half hour, she does not even grumble when Doctor Andor arrives at noon to fuss over her in tandem with her difficult, impossible, perfect husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:
> 
> Poe and Rey attend their first ball as a married couple. When confronted with a persistent, malicious rumor, Poe begs his wife for the story of her past.
> 
> (Angst Ahoy)


	2. Ghosts of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poe and Rey attend their first ball as a married couple; Poe overhears gossip and Rey makes a new friend; Poe asks his wife about the origin of the most pernicious rumors regarding her reputation, and she tells him of her tragic past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We 100% earn the Mature rating in this chapter. It is very intense, and was hard to write. There are additional warnings in the end notes, if you read these initial readings and need more information.
> 
> Warning: cruel gossip (Regency era sex-shaming), references to Poe's own sexual past, and then Rey's backstory is a heap of warnings, mainly: references to non-consensual contact of a sexual nature, near assault, physical violence. 
> 
> The full warning is in the end notes if you need it to make sure you want to read this chapter. If you want to skip that part, you can stop at the cut after the scene where Poe is talking with Jyn and Rey. After the asterisks, the phrase "That night, after the ball" marks the beginning of the difficult conversation.

Poe greets Ben when the tall man walks through the doors of Yavin, hours before the early autumn assembly at Coruscant Park. Neither gentleman happily anticipates an evening spent stiffly in highly formal company; but, Poe does happily anticipate the sight of his wife in a new gown, one he had personally commissioned for her on his trip to London – and, in truth, he happily anticipates not having to leave her side for a whole evening.

Ben does not happily anticipate much, aside from a hangover in the morning, judging by how much he has already taken upon himself to drink.

Ben is, however, slightly cheered when reminded that Miss Lintra will be in attendance.

This incites Poe to extreme amusement. “Do you intend to formally court her, Benjamin, or shall we expect to enjoy your heaving sighing and wistful gazes from the side of the room when she stands with other gentlemen?”

“I do not know of what you speak, Dameron,” Ben says snidely.

“No?” Poe fixes him with a quizzical glare. “How did the last ball go, exactly? Ah. I actually recall holding you by the elbow so you did not lurch forward and stab Alexander Johnson through the stomach.”

“One day, Commander, I’ll make good on my promise and run _you_ through with my sword. It will not matter to whom you are married, precious sister of mine or no.”

Poe opens his mouth to swear to his friend that he will never be intimidated by him, when the lilting voice of his wife sounds from the entrance to the drawing room. “Precious sister? Do you speak of me, Benjamin, or have you already replaced me since I departed Alderaan?”

Ben’s feigned scowl at Poe’s impertinence fades rapidly into a brilliant smile at the sight of Rey. “Sister!” He crows, walking forward rapidly. He catches Rey around the waist and swings her in a wide circle. Her booted feet almost catch Poe at the knee, and he leaps back, laughing loudly enough to match the siblings. “None could ever replace you in my regard, Mrs. Dameron,” he says fondly, setting Rey down and tapping her on the nose.

“I shall be sure to say that to Tallie tonight,” Rey says teasingly, standing on her toes to pinch Ben’s blushing cheek. “Ladies do love a sensitive heart in a man, especially when that man is typically dark and brooding.”

“You’ve been reading too many novels,” Ben scolds, looking far too fond for the insult to land. “The commander indulges you.”

“Indeed he does. The commander spoils me rotten.” Rey turns around in her brother’s arms to smile at Poe winningly, and although they have been married nearly three months, his heart still stutters at the knowledge that this incandescent drop of the heavens has chosen _him._

“I do not,” Poe insists. “Not nearly enough, I dare say.”

Rey steps away from Ben to walk to his side, and she slides her hand through his, and kisses him on his whiskered cheek. He had delayed in trimming his beard since she confessed her preference for the light scratch of his facial hair. Poe blushes as Ben grins wickedly at him.

His wife excuses herself a few moments later to go prepare for the ball, and Ben continues to smirk at Poe. “We are quite the pair, are we not, Dameron?” Ben comments idly. “Two ferocious men, cut down to size continuously by the women we love.”

The taller man’s eyes widen suddenly at the last sentence, and Poe cannot even bring himself to tease his oldest friend. “I am glad to hear you confess your love so easily,” Poe says, kindly. “Tallissan is a wonderful woman, and I will support you in your courtship, always, Ben, no matter the frequency with which I may give you grief.”

Ben shuffles his feet and fidgets with his cufflinks before he says, gruffly, “I know.”

**

***

At the ball, Rey finds herself parted from her husband after dinner, as the men wander off to discuss something of mild importance. She is instead shepherded into a side room with the other married women, and she stands, horrified at her internal boredom, against the wall as the women lapse into idle gossip. Rumors fly faster than birds, and Rey stares into her cup of mulled wine and waits it out.

Within a few minutes, however, her section of the wall is infringed upon by a presence sidling closer to her. Rey looks to her left, and sees a small, beautiful woman, perhaps fifteen years her senior, grinning at her conspiratorially.

“Personally, I told my husband I should run him through if he abandoned me to another session of the merrily chattering wives, but he has never been very good at determining when my threats are serious or not,” the new woman comments cheerfully.

“Perhaps my husband and yours know each other,” Rey says, raising her brow and extending her cup towards her new companion. “For my husband swore to not leave my side at this assembly, and here I am. Abandoned as well.”

“We should start a society.” The small woman extend her hand to Rey, and she takes it, smiling in earnest for the first time since her husband kissed her cheek in farewell. “Jyn Andor.”

“Doctor Andor’s wife?” Rey asks, delighted. “I am Rey Dameron.” They shake hands heartily, and turn to face one another, ignoring the stares of the other women who have seated themselves amongst the various chairs.

“I have heard quite a bit about you, Rey,” Jyn smirks. “I believe you are keeping my husband in business. Your husband calls for him often enough.”

“My husband will worry himself into an early grave,” Rey says, half-serious. “The commander frets over every imagined injury to my person, including – this is no jest – a hangnail, last week.”

“A hangnail.” Jyn raises her eyebrows mightily. “Heavens, did the good doctor amputate?” Jyn grabs Rey’s hand and pretends to examine it.

“After much consideration, we decided to risk leaving the appendage attached to my body, despite its betrayal.”

Jyn hums in appreciation and releases her hold. They both then turn at an outburst of speech, and Jyn smirks at a group of women who return to their whispered conversation after Rey and Jyn catch them staring. “So, Rey, tell me. Are you as horrified as these other women to see a disgraced socialite? Wed to a common doctor, no less? Half these women in here owe their lives or their children’s lives to my husband – which is how we secured an invitation to this grand event, mind you – and yet I do not doubt any of these women would look twice were I to choke on this wine.”

“I am certainly not horrified,” Rey laughs, lightly. “You will find that I myself am quite the disgrace. And as for the wine, I’m sure you can find something better to threaten your life with. There were rumors of chocolate in the parlor.”

“Finally, a rumor of interest.” Jyn takes Rey’s hand and leads her to the doors. “Come with me, for we are not prisoners here, Mrs. Dameron.”

Rey laughs louder, and follows Mrs. Erso out into the hallway; they spend the next quarter hour cheerfully searching for chocolate and various other treats. They are most successful in their plunder, and retreat to the portico to consume their treasures.

Since coming to Somerset, Rey has made several female acquaintances. Now, with a woman who is most powerfully a kindred spirit, Rey feels like she may have finally made a friend.

**

Poe wanders out of the men’s discussion feeling slightly cross. It had run close to a half hour, and he had missed his wife. He regrets breaking his promise to her, unwilling though it was, and wishes he could have spent the entirety of the evening with her, as planned.

He wanders the assembly, trying to find her, and grins to himself when he witnesses Ben approach Tallissan Lintra and request her first dance.

“And all the dances you may be willing to spare me,” Ben rumbles, quietly, his ears bright red.

“I think you will find that I am willing to spare you most of my dances,” Tallie says to him, blushing as well (which is not an easy feat, Poe knows, as he has been friends with her for so long).

Delighted for his friend, Poe is in better spirits as he continues to search for Rey, and he stumbles to a halt when he hears her name. He is nearing a doorway into another room, and he sees an unfortunately familiar figure five feet away from him, engaged in conversation with an unknown young woman.

What he overhears, when he leans in to listen closer, is: “It is a great wonder to see Mrs. Dameron’s current condition.” Her unknown companion is a young woman newly introduced into their society, unaware of the sharp and slanderous tongue inside Bazine’s mouth.

“What do you mean, Miss Netal?” The girl asks worriedly. “Mrs. Dameron looks in fine spirits, and she is ever so kind.”

“I mean to say – well, look at her figure,” Miss Netal sniffs and looks around, but does not look behind her – where Poe stands, affixed in fury, staring at Bazine. She does not get to say Rey’s name again – he will not bear it. Before he can make his presence known, Miss Netal whispers, “Her past is quite the scandal: it is no real secret that she was familiar with the company of men before she came to Somerset. Many of us thought that there had been an _incident_ with the commander, who, as you may or may not know, has a past of his own of extreme indiscretion _._ Why else would Commander Dameron be inspired to matrimony to a woman so below his own station, if not to secure the legality of a bastard?”

“That is enough.” Poe snaps, not even knowing the proper way to interrupt. Both women startle and turn around to face him. Poe pulls himself up to his full height (wishing, not for the first time, for the height of Ben). “You would do well to heed me, Bazine, when I say: Never say my wife’s name; never appear at an assembly if she is there; never so much as look at her again. You do not deserve even that connection to her.”

Miss Netal’s companion looks properly mortified and begs his pardon. Poe would be willing to give it to her, but not her sharp-tongued devil of a friend. “Commander Dameron,” Bazine huffs, as haughtily as possible. “Is that the way a naval officer speaks to a lady?”

“I see no lady here,” Poe says coldly. “I see a woman who would do well to hold her tongue, lest society be reminded _precisely_ what kind of person she is. You would do well to leave, madam, before I become the person to remind the families present of who you really are.”

Poe stares at her until she leaves, and then turns to her quaking companion. He smiles at her, thinly, the poor thing not a day over eighteen. “And you would do well to find a new friend,” Poe says, not unkindly. “May I suggest Miss Lintra’s younger sister? She is new to society as well, and dare I say, much more appropriate of a companion for a young gentlewoman.” The girl nods and hurries off, still bright red in embarrassment.

He stands for a few more minutes, clenching and unclenching his fists, until his wife reappears in the ballroom, arm in arm with Doctor Andor’s wife. He smiles at her, and prays that his concern does not show in his eyes.

Rey walks up, chatting animatedly with Mrs. Andor, and introduces her to Poe. He bows in greeting and listens to the women chat brightly about this subject and the other, offering pertinent comments when necessary. His observant wife catches his eye, and gives him a look of concern, but Poe smiles at her reassuringly and applies himself more ardently to the conversation, not wanting to worry her.

**

***

That night, after the ball, Poe undresses her almost reverently, kissing every bare inch of skin exposed. He murmurs his love for her throughout the process, and Rey knows intense pleasure multiple times under his clever tongue and fingers before they are even joined.

Afterwards, she lies back on the soft pillows and sighs blissfully, smiling at her husband who stares at her as if she were made of precious metal or some other invaluable thing. Poe lies on his side and rests his head on his right hand while propped up on his elbow, and his left hand strokes through her unbound hair, his thumb and fingertips at times coming to brush along her forehead and cheek. “I love you,” he whispers, his thumb sliding over her bottom lip.

Rey nips at it, playfully, and looks at him contented when she answers, “I know.”

Poe smiles, but he looks saddened, still, and Rey worries for it. “Did I displease you, husband?”

“You could never,” he murmurs, sliding his hand through her hair tenderly. “Never, Rey. I—” He stops himself, and shakes his head, smiling ruefully. “It is no matter.”

“Tell me,” Rey whispers, her hand coming to grip his where it rests against her neck and jaw. “Please, Poe, tell me, or I will not be able to sleep.”

Her husband groans and leans down to kiss her shoulder. “I do not wish to upset you,” he mutters.

“You would upset me by keeping things from me,” Rey posits without heat, and her ever-respectful husband sits up and nods at her logic.

“I overheard some people talking at the ball,” Poe begins, and then clears his throat. Rey raises her eyebrow – had her and Mrs. Erso’s behavior really been that scandalous? They were not even drunk, for Heaven’s sake. “About your time in the north of England.” He finishes, averting his eyes almost shamefully.

“Oh,” Rey says, sadly, understanding where this path will take them. She regrets this conversation must take place so soon after they knew such bliss in each other’s arms. Not wanting to look him in the face when they discuss this, she turns on her side, and his hand begins to stroke her from shoulder to hip and back again, a soothing circuit. “You have heard those rumors before, though.”

“I have,” Poe admits. “And you do not need to tell me, but – Rey, my love, why would people think your reputation ruined?” He sounds concerned, and not angry, and that gives Rey hope that he will not request an annulment when he learns the truth. “I know you were a virgin when we married,” and when she looks over her shoulder briefly, his face burns a brighter red than the odd soil at Crait Manor, where they first met. “And you have never acted with anything other than propriety. It just – it upsets me, I suppose, that people would be suspicious of you, a lady, and a paragon of virtue.”

“They had fair reason to be suspicious,” she admits, not wanting to lie to her husband or hide things from him anymore. Rey stares at the wall on the other side of the room when she says, “There were many who – who tried. When Uncle Ben was sick, and after he died. One got fairly close, bruised me something fierce.”

Poe’s hand, roving her body comfortingly as it was, tightens on her waist, and she feels herself being pulled onto her back. “What?” He looks aghast. She fidgets under his gaze.

“I’m sure it’s nothing worse than things you’ve seen as a soldier,” she reminds him. “It’s a reality for many women. No men accomplished their goal in deflowering me against my will, so no harm was truly done. My fate is much happier than many women; I have only lain with my husband, who is kind, and good, and would never hurt me. I was warned of intercourse by several older women, all of whom, excepting Mrs. Solo, told me that lovemaking was something to be born as a duty. I couldn’t have imagined the pleasure it could bring.” Poe kisses her sweetly at that, and she tastes a part of herself still on his tongue. It’s heady and intoxicating, and she’s lost to the kiss, but he pulls away after less than a minute and rests his head in her shoulder.

“Rey,” he wraps an arm around her middle and pulls her close to him. “Rey, I cannot abide the knowledge that someone hurt you.”

“Many people did,” she says, truly confused now. “I thought you knew? The rumors, other than the one of my virginity, were regretfully true.”

“I told you I did not listen to rumors,” he reminds her gently. “What rumors?”

“I was beaten often as a child,” she tells him. “My parents were not kind, and they sold me to work for a cruel man, so they could have drinking money. I was starved and kicked at like a stray dog for the first thirteen years of my life. Uncle Ben learned of my condition and came to collect me; he was my father’s uncle, and had a small home out in the moors of northern England. I knew happiness for a time, there, but he fell ill when I was just fifteen, and that’s when the men came.”

“Who were they?” he asks. “I beg your pardon, my love -- you do not need to tell me. I just – I wish I knew their names so I could ruin them, destroy them.” His voice is dark, and Rey shivers from it. It’s the first time she’s shivered in his bed in an unpleasant way. “What did they do to you, my sweet?”

She forces herself to remain lying on her back, and regards the ceiling. It is a far sight easier than regarding her husband’s face, which at the moment is dark, serious, unreadable. “What you expect – pulling at me, trying to steal kisses, pinching my face and bottom.” When Poe does not speak, she continues, still afraid of the next piece of information. “After my Uncle Ben died and I was arranging the funeral, one succeeded in pushing me against an outside wall,” she whispers, face burning in shame. “I couldn’t see or do anything, he had me pinned with my back to him. His hand was at my stays, and the other at my skirts, and he – he—”

Poe makes a wounded noise. “My darling girl,” he groans, turning in the bed so he hovers, half over, her, kissing the stretch of her shoulder. “My sweet, sweet, sunbeam.” He wraps his arms around her and tucks his face into her shoulder, as though she were the strong one, and he the one who needed help.

“He didn’t breach my body,” she reassures him, bringing her hand up to play with his dark curls. “You’re the only man who’s _known_ me in that respect. But still, it – it hurt. When I would not yield, he struck me so hard I feared I had gone blind. That’s when a man who had been helping my uncle returned from town and startled him. I broke the scoundrel’s nose, and he was sent to jail.”

“I hope he died there,” Poe snarls savagely, pulling away from her so he can look her in the face, dragging his weight up onto his elbows so he can study her easily. His voice softens impossibly from whatever he must see there. “But Rey, darling girl, I wish you would stop trying to reassure me of your status as untouched before we lay together. Even if those blaggards  had – if they had succeeded in – “ Poe is overcome by emotion, and shakes his head, eyes closed against the turn of his thoughts. “My beautiful, darling sunbeam, you would not be to blame, and I would still think you just as perfect as I do now. The things that were done to you were unjust, and not in any respect your fault. The world was cruel to you; I will not be.”

Rey opens her mouth to reassure him, or to make a joke, but she bursts into tears instead. Poe’s hands remain soft on her the whole time, his body pressed against hers. Eventually, he pulls the comforter around them, so he can hold her under their warm blankets. She feels safe in his arms, safer than she has ever allowed herself to feel. Rey fades into a dreamless sleep listening to her husband murmur his love for her into her hair while she stains his pillows with her grief.

**

Poe studies Rey’s sleeping form, understanding, regretfully, the precise phantoms which cross her face even now, stealing her security from her in her slumber.

To be _sold_ by her parents, the people who should have loved her most dearly – to be abandoned, to be hurt and tormented, to be nearly –

He will find out the name of the man who had harmed her in that way; it cannot be hard. Track down the man who had intervened, get the information from the county gaol, use records to discover the fiend’s location, and challenge him. Poe spends a grimly satisfying moment imagining the faceless man’s body impaled on his sword.

Rey whimpers softly in her sleep, hand drifting across the sheets as she reaches out blindly for something. Poe’s heart immediately softens and his mind turns from vengeance. How could he consider cruelty when an angel had lighted upon the earth and chosen to share his bed? Trying not to disturb her, he drapes his arm over her body and slips his fingers through hers. She sighs and her grip tightens around him.

She shifts in her sleep further, her body turning onto her side, and Rey curves towards him unconsciously. Poe fights the urge to kiss her, but he knows he will not be able to sleep this night. He examines her face, which steadily relaxes as the minutes wear on, and his eye catches on something he has noticed in the past: the small scar that curves under her eye, the one he has wondered the origin of since they first met. Poe realizes the story she just shared with him must be the source, and he feels inspired to heights of violence he has never before reached.

He still struggles with his newly discovered depth of rage when the dawn peeks through the east-facing windows. It is not until his wife blinks her hazel eyes open and smiles at him luminously, beckoning him down for a kiss to say good morning, that his heart beats its regular pattern once more.

During the kiss, which grows more passionate and devoted while the passing seconds pool around them with the sunlight, Poe dedicates himself to the mission to make sure his wife never knows fear, nor pain again. Not while he is alive and able to care for and protect his sunbeam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full warning: After mentioning her childhood abuse, Rey discusses what happened to her when her Uncle Ben died. It's been hinted at in all parts of the series so far, and I don't write it lightly, but: Rey tells Poe of consistent sexual harassment in her past that included being touched without consent. One man does attack her from behind and attempts to sexually assault her; he is unsuccessful, despite striking Rey and terrifying her, and he goes to jail. Then, after she falls asleep in the present, Poe imagines how happy he would be to murder the man who attacked her.  
> It's very dark, but I hope to approach the subject with respect. 
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> Non-warning, actual end note:
> 
> So, hopefully the rest of this fic will be up quicker than the last update. The reason why it took so long to publish this chapter is I kept putting details in about Rey's assault and taking them back out. I aimed for enough information to explain why she hates people approaching her from behind (something that's been shown in past stories in this series) and her own hesitance on her wedding night, etc., but without sensationalizing or focusing on the details of what actually happened to her. I want to show her growth of trust in Poe, and how it affects/has affected their relationship, so -
> 
> I'm legitimately going to go write some fluff now to get over how draining it was to write this chapter <3 thank you for reading, and I hope you didn't totally hate it?!


	3. A Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poe overlooks something on his estate and hurts his wife indirectly and unexpectedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Reference to/implied corporal punishment of a minor. Nothing is graphic, but intense/painful injury is implied (see end note for a more specific warning)
> 
> Warning: Rey references her own childhood of abuse, and there is a big, uncomfortable confrontation/fight (so if you're looking for a fluffy time, maybe save this to read later?)

Poe spends the next few weeks in intense concentration and focus as he tries to narrow down the man who may have hurt his wife in such a despicable way. He feels ill, often, at the thought of her being touched without permission, the lingering pain it causes her, the sudden understanding he has gained from the way she sometimes flinches away from him if he does not announce his presence when she is lost in thought and he walks up behind her.

He takes great care to announce himself, now; for instance, one day in the library as she peruses the atlas, he enters the room and sees her standing in a shaft of sunlight. “My sunbeam,” Poe murmurs, from the doorway. “You are radiant. May I hold you?”

“Yes,” Rey looks over her shoulder at him and smiles, brightly. “You may.” She returns to her atlas, and when Poe slides his hands around her small waist, she merely sighs happily and leans back into him while she continues to examine the map of Africa. Poe rests his chin on her shoulder, and kisses her neck quickly before he joins her in her study for a quiet quarter hour. He has never held his wife from behind like this – she fits so well in his arms, and he feels an intense, private pride in the fact that she trusts him enough to allow him this intimacy.

“I love you,” he whispers in her ear, five minutes into the study of Australia.

“And I you, my darling,” Rey answers with great ease, and Poe feels his happiness swell in his chest to a fevered height; they will never know sadness again, he is sure.

***

He thinks this too soon; he realizes on a stormy October afternoon. Kes has departed for Spain, and he will not return until April of the following year. Poe is now master of the house, and he will still be upon his father’s return. There are matters of the estate to look over, responsibilities his father prepared him for, but on top of the additional task of tracking down the monster who haunts his perfect wife’s nightmares, Poe feels himself rather stretched thin.

Poe knows himself to be capable; he does not worry that the estate will run out of money or fall into disarray. But, his attention is drained of late, and sometimes it is all he can do to curl up around Rey in their bed and fall asleep – and, on this particular afternoon, his attention is so focused on a letter he has received from a sheriff in the north of the country, that he barely blinks when one of the head servants hails him in the front hall.

Rey is nearby – even in his distraction, he takes note of her proximity, as warm and undeniable as her presence is – perched in a window seat across the hall. Poe looks up from the report (the sheriff regrets to inform him that _the man he seeks was released from prison years ago and disappeared, but we can take heart in the knowledge that the wastrel may simply lie dead in a ditch in a different countie)_ and nods at the servant who addressed him.

“My lord,” the man bows, and Poe racks his brain trying to remember his name.

“Yes, Peter?” Poe remembers, at the last second. “May I help you?”

“My lord, one of the kitchen boys has caused quite the accident today.” The man sniffs. Rey looks up from her book, but Poe cannot meet her eyes, not when it is hard enough to fight the rage inside of him from the sheriff’s letter and the impotence it inspired.

“What do you mean, Peter?”

“I mean, he was running, and knocked over the bird we were intending to roast for dinner, broke several plates, and tripped into a cabinet of china.”

“Is he alright?” Rey asks, from her seat. She snaps her book shut and rises, looking anxious. “The boy? Is he alright?”

The servant looks over his shoulder, appalled at Rey’s question. “Yes, Mrs. Dameron. The monetary loss is much more significant than any injury to the boy.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Poe asks, curiously. “Do you require permission to use some money from the estate’s account to replace the broken items? You can come to my office and we can settle this in the morning. I am quite certain broken plates can wait a night to be fixed.”

He notices that Rey visibly relaxes at the statement, and he frowns at her. She had been tense enough to fight, he knows, but he does not know why.

“Very good, my lord. And what would you have us do with the boy?”

“The boy?” Poe asks, his attention drifting once more to the letter in his hand, the words that will surely haunt him, _released from prison years ago and disappeared,_ and he does not really pay heed to the servant’s next words.

“Yes, sir, we need to punish him.” He says something else, but Poe’s too busy frowning at the sheriff’s words to hear them.

“Yes, yes,” Poe mutters, already turning away to the stairs. He looks up briefly and nods at the servant. “Do what you must.”

“ _Poe._ ” He looks over in shock at his wife, who has called him by his first name in front of a servant. The servant looks startled too, and more than a little irritated at her familiarity. Poe knows he frowns – still at the bad news, and not at her – and Rey looks terrified, suddenly. “Commander Dameron,” she amends, looking at him beseechingly.

“Thank you sir,” the servant bows and then fixes Rey with a withering look before he leaves. Well, that will not do. Poe will find him later and tell him Mrs. Dameron can call Poe a dithering idiot in front of the staff for all he cares, it does not bother Poe, so it certainly should not bother the servant.

Poe looks back down at the letter and turns away to walk to his study and to write a letter to the sheriff of the neighboring county to the one Rey was tormented in, but he is almost knocked over by someone brushing past him.

Rey sprints up the stairs, skirts gathered in her hands, and she disappears around the corners to their rooms. The last thing he hears before the door slams is a muffled sob.

Oh God – she is upset. Poe can barely remember what the servant had just said, but he wonders if she worries he is mad at her for addressing him familiarly in front of staff. He rushes up the stairs after her, letter all but forgotten, as he follows his wife to assure him that he adores her no less for the indiscretion.

When he enters the bedroom, he finds his wife staring out the window, shoulders heaving with some great emotion, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle.

“Rey, my sunbeam,” Poe says after the door closes behind him. “What is it? What bothers you?”

“You—” Rey shakes her head, back still to him. Her voice shakes with the weight of her tears.

“Why do you cry, angel?” Poe asks her, stepping forward. She flinches, slightly, and he freezes. _She must think I am angry with her._

“Because you let them beat him,” his wife whispers, and it falls into place. She is angry for the sake of the kitchen boy, the one neither of them have probably ever seen, the one that gotten in trouble, reasonably, and is now being dealt with in the usual way.

Still, he knows this life is new to Rey, so he tries to explain. “Rey, my love, a firm hand is sometimes needed—”

“I know of firm hands, Commander.” She spins on her heel and regards him furiously, chin up and a spark in her eye. The passion of which she is capable is a large reason why he fell in love with her, three years ago, but now it terrifies him, as it’s never quite been directed at him in this fashion. “If I disobey you, am I to expect the same treatment?”

“No!” Poe denies the idea immediately, aghast at the suggestion. How has this conversation turned to passionate anger so quickly? He must convince her of his love. “I swear to you, I will never lift a hand to you in violence, and I would strike down any who tried. It’s different – you are my _wife,_ for Christ’s sake. You are my treasure, my sunbeam, my brightest star. I would never, ever harm you. The boy will be fine, and besides he’s just a—” He cuts himself off immediately, painfully aware of his error.

“He’s just a what, Commander Dameron.” She only calls him that when they are being playful in their bed, or when she is irritated with him. He assumes this falls in the latter category. “Go on – say it. He’s just a servant, correct?”

“Yes.” He mumbles, hands reaching out plaintively even as his bravery fails him. “Rey, darling.”

“No, do not call me that.” She shakes her head and covers her mouth with her hand. “I was just a servant once – worse, I was a slave. Many good men turned a blind eye to my suffering. Would you have been one of them?”

“My love, please—”

“Do not call me your love, your sweet, your anything.” She cries, tears running from her beautiful hazel eyes. He is a monster, he is dirt, he is vile. “I am of the same class as that boy, born to paupers, raised by thieves and liars, and brought to heel.”

“The boy will be fine, Rey, honestly –”

“They are whipping him, Commander.” Rey’s eyes flash even through her tears. “That is what you gave that man permission to do. Have you ever been whipped?”

“No.” Poe aims for honesty, hoping that his regret will be painted on his face clearly.

“I have.” She lifts her chin. “I wear the scars to this day.” He has seen them, and he had wondered – but God, he had hoped his assumption was wrong. “Or did you never wonder at what was on my back, so content to lay with the garbage if you were not required to ask uncomfortable questions?”

“God damn it, Rey, do not speak about yourself like that!” He roars. Poe has never yelled at his wife, or any woman, before. She does not flinch, not in a familiar way. Instead, she wraps her arms around her middle and stares at him reproachfully, chin tucked into her collarbone. He wants to apologize the moment his shout leaves his mouth, but she is not done.

“That boy could have been spoken to, could have been reprimanded in a way that helped him to learn. Instead you turned your back on him, and let them treat him as if he were an animal. So he will go through life thinking that he deserves to be treated like that. Maybe he will come to rise above his station, and gain some fortune in his life. And the day will arrive where he stands across from the person he loves, and his heart will break, because he will remember how it felt to be treated like an animal, and he will wait for the person who he trusts more than anyone else in the world to hurt him, to strike him. Because it will be all he knows. Like it is all I know.” Her hands come to rest, clenched in fists, at the front of her skirts.

Poe strides forward and falls to his knees, grabbing his wife’s hands imploringly. “I would die before I struck you, Rey. Please, forgive me. Please. I did not see – I do now. Please.”

“I will take my leave of you.” Rey pulls her hands away from him. He bows his head and clutches at her small waist, but she grabs his wrists and pushes him away. Poe remains on his knees, eyes burning with tears while he stares up at his avenging goddess. “ _No_ , Poe. I am leaving. I will go to find the _child_ that you abandoned, and I will try to show him some human kindness.”

She sweeps towards the door, and gathers a collection of cloths from the basket she keeps by her chair. Poe winces at the implication behind her knowledge that she will need them. “Do not wait for me tonight.” Rey pauses in the door to deliver this final, crushing edict. “I will not come.”

And then she’s gone, and Poe’s left staring at the door, wondering how he could have ruined their happiness so quickly, so completely.

***

As promised, Rey does not come to his quarters that night. He resigns himself to the first night spent without his wife under a shared roof since their wedding five months ago (the only other time they have not slept together was his journey to London). Other couples rarely share a bed, he reasons, this cannot be so hard – soon, he finds himself drifting to the brandy that sits on a shelf in the corner of his rooms. He pours a hearty measure of the liquor and downs it in one gulp.

God, he misses his wife. His mind drifts to the months spent at sea, where he would place the letters she sent him, one every two months, under his pillow, and close his eyes to chase the memory of her lilting voice and carefree laugh. Poe has loved Rey since the moment he met her, when she teased him so easily and so cleverly. He never stood a chance; he only hoped to catch her eye, to draw out another one of her precious laughs, to get her attention even if for a minute.

Poe bangs his fist against the wall, enraged at himself, needing a physical outlet. He has not punched a wall since he was a teenager, reeling from the death of his mother.

Rey is just angry with him – it will pass. It has to pass.

Another hour passes, and she does not appear in his doorway. Poe grits his teeth and rises from the armchair – where she had once taken him inside of her, legs splayed on either side of his, delightedly proclaiming “it’s like riding a horse,” and dissolving into laughter when he had neighed playfully and started to thrust up into her – and strides to the door. He is at his wife’s door within minutes, and he raises his fist to bang on the wood. He stops himself, breathes out through his nose – he is not furious with her, only with himself – and knocks timidly.

“Mrs. Dameron?” He calls and knocks again. “Please, allow me to bid you goodnight.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Kalonia, the mistress of the house, regards him from the end of the hallway. He feels ten years old again, like he’s been caught with his hand in the treat jar. “Your wife won’t answer you, sir.”

“She is fearsome angry with me, Mrs. Kalonia,” he mutters, bracing his hand against the door. “How could I convince her to let me in?”

“Well, if it helps, she isn’t in there.”

“What?” Poe lurches forward and opens the door. Sure enough, the fire is unlit, the bed undisturbed. “Where -- Where is she?” He stands in the entrance and looks around, terrified. “Did she leave?”

“You think so little of your own wife?” Kalonia regards him coolly.

“No, but I cannot imagine why she would want such a brute for a husband.” Poe rubs his hand over his face tiredly, and Mrs. Kalonia waits for him to ride out this fit of rage. “Please, do you have any idea where she is?”

“She’s in the kitchen, dear boy. I would approach softly, and listen to her. I think if you listen often enough, you’ll become a very good man in time.”

Mrs. Kalonia disappears down the hall, no doubt to tend to the fire in his empty room, and Poe walks nervously down to the kitchens. Nervous in his own home. It makes sense that it would be Rey that would inspire terror in him. She keeps him on his guard at all times.

He nods at the cook, who currently prepares the meals tomorrow, on his way in.

“Your wife, sir,” the cook clears his throat. “She’s in the sleeping quarters.” Poe nods his thanks and continues through the kitchens, towards the small rooms set aside for the servants who do not wish to live in town.

Poe spies an open door at the end of the hallway, a warm light emitting from the room.

The most beautiful singing voice he has ever heard is coming from the room as well, and his heart pounds traitorously when he realizes it is in fact his wife. He has never heard her sing before, but the quality and tone of it is unmistakable. The angel singing is his sunbeam.

He comes to stand in the open doorway, and he feels a tear in his eye form at the sight before him.

His wife is sitting next to a small cot, the kitchen boy laid out on his stomach, shirt removed – Poe sees that it’s torn, bloody, a sight that makes him sick – and placed at her feet. Warm compresses have been placed on his back, and Rey strokes the child’s hair absentmindedly as she sings him a lullaby. He shifts and whimpers immediately, and Poe fights the urge to vomit when he sees fresh blood stain the cloth.

“It is alright to cry,” she stops singing to whisper to him, smoothing over his sweaty hair. “You are allowed to feel hurt. Let it out sweetheart, do not hold it in. I know it hurts.” The boy sobs louder at that, and Rey cries with him, her small hand still petting his head while the other comes to cover her mouth. “You are being so brave,” she tells him, voice breaking. “So very brave. The first night is the hardest, I promise.”

Poe steps away momentarily, takes large steps down the hallway so he can breathe. He braces his hands on the wall and rests his forehead, eyes squeezed shut while he gulps for air. He is a monster. He let this happen in his own home.

“Sir?” The cook has appeared. “Are you alright?”

“Fetch the doctor,” he snaps, shoving himself upright.

“Are you ill?” The cook’s face is pained, drawn. “Your wife – is she ill? Is Mrs. Dameron ill?”

“No – get the doctor and tell him to bring what he needs to dress open wounds. It’s for the boy.”

“Thomas?” The cook looks stunned. “Are you certain?”

“Get the damned doctor!” Poe grits out.

“Yes sir, of course, right away.” The cook hurries off to find a messenger, and Poe considers walking back to his wife’s side. But there’s nothing he can do to help, and his appearance may inspire more terror in the boy – _Thomas_.

Poe goes upstairs and pulls on a greatcoat over his nightclothes. He stands in the front entrance, and when Andor arrives, he personally escorts the man to the hallway where the kitchen staff lives. He points to the open door, hands over a bag of coin that would cover more than double the cost of a house visit, and does not follow Cassian inside. Instead, he climbs wearily to his room and closes the door.

He sits on his bed and buries his face in his hands. Nothing he does can inspire his mind to let go of the image of his wife crying over a child who was hurt, a child he could have spared, if he had only been a better man, a man who deserved the love of Rey Kenobi. He does not allow himself to fully grieve his new reality, the knowledge that his perfect sunbeam may never share this bed with him again; after all, it will be all his fault .

***

He does not sleep a wink. Poe goes downstairs at dawn, and while the morning light peeks through the east-facing windows of the front room, he sees his wife emerge from the kitchens.

Her hands are stained with blood, and her dress is rumpled. Her brown hair hangs in her tired face, and her eyes are red-rimmed. She looks like she spent a night facing all the demons of Hell; remembering what she let slip of her childhood, he realizes that is precisely what she did.

“Rey,” he stumbles forward, turning from the window completely.

She does not even look at him. She climbs the stairs slowly, and spine stiff, shoulders in a set line. Because he is not a smart man, he follows three steps behind her. Rey pauses at the head of the stairs, and for a wild moment, Poe thinks she’ll turn left and go to his room. But she seems to shake herself, and she goes to the right.

When she lets herself into her room, she does not close the door behind her, so he takes it as an invitation.

Rey stands in the washroom, and he pauses in the doorway to regard her. She does not turn around, and stares out the small window that faces out towards the back of the manor.

“Rey?” Poe whispers. “Rey, darling, are you—what are you thinking? Please, tell me, or I fear I will go mad.”

“It isn’t fair,” she tells him. Rey turns around and grips the bathtub as she sways on her feet; Poe fights the urge to run to her, to support her. She does not wish for him to touch her, or she would have asked.

“What isn’t fair, my love?” Poe begs her for more information; if it is an injustice that he can fix, he will fix it. His mind already reels with ideas to rectify his mistake of the previous day, the ways he can help Thomas to heal, the ways he can help to improve Thomas’s life.

“You brought me out here, separated me from the only family I’ve ever known. You have so many friends, you have other men to speak to. But you are the only person I can talk to; you made sure of that. And I have not been able to talk to my best and only friend for hours because I have been furious with him.” Her lip quivers, finally, a break in the blank expression on her face. “It isn’t fair.” The mask of cold detachment descends once more on her beautiful face, and Poe watches as she turns back to the tub.

Rey’s hands go to the buttons of her dress, and Poe is amazed that her fingers are able to undo them, shaking as they are. Rey slides her outer layer off, and stands in her underthings and petticoat. He watches, enraptured and terrified, as she slides them off too. His wife stands before him, completely bare, and he wonders not for the first time at the permanent jut of her hipbones and ribcage, the bones of her spine sticking out almost painfully, despite her voracious appetite and constant access to food.

Poe’s eyes wander to her calloused, red-tired feet, up the lines of her legs – catching briefly on the swell of her magnificent bottom before he drags his eyes away, as this moment is not meant for his gaze to become sexual, he is sure – and then he lets his eyes rest on her back.

Specifically, the poorly healed scars, six in number, that stretch from her right shoulder blade to her left hip. They are faded, but still present, and he knows he has felt them under his fingertips; he noticed them on their wedding night, but he has never imagined their source could be something so violent. Rey is careless, and prone to accidents: that is what he told himself had happened, he convinced himself that they occurred when she was thrown from her horse, or some childhood incident. That was what he had allowed himself to think had happened. It is so much more bearable than the truth.

Rey can feel his stare, apparently. “I was nine years old,” she says softly, not turning from the tub. “I dropped a pitcher, and they beat me. When I would not cry, they whipped me, six times, one for each coin it would take to replace the pitcher.”

There comes a low moan of pain; he realizes that he is the one making it. She looks over her shoulder, and her eyes are no longer alight with fury. They are merely tired. “Oh God,” she whispers. “Poe.” Poe moves forward as if she had tied a string around his neck and pulled. He holds his wife’s body against his, and they rock back and forth above the water of the bathtub, a sob forming in her chest, under his fingers. Rey lurches forward, weeping harder he’s ever seen his beloved cry. Her hands grip the sides of the tub, and he holds her as well as he can.

“I love you,” he whispers into her shoulder. “Christ Almighty, I love you more than anything else in this entire world. You will never know pain again. I swear it.” He kisses her bare shoulder, and then an inch inward, and another inch inward – Poe will show her how much he loves her, he will demonstrate to her just how perfect he finds her.

“No,” she says, after a pause, shaking slightly so he stops his quest. “No, I do not want— I am – I am _furious_ with you, Poe. You cannot just make that vanish as though what transpired did not matter.”

He nods, releasing her at once. “What can I do?” He asks her, willing to beg, and plead, to humiliate himself, abuse his flesh, whatever she requires, he will do.

“Leave me,” Rey says, after a pause. She stares down at the water of her bath, and does not look at him. “Just. Leave me to think, please.”

Poe bows, deeply, and murmurs, “As you wish, Mrs. Dameron.” Her posture does not change, and she does not turn to look at him before he takes his leave. Poe swiftly exits her room and closes the door behind him, the last sight he has of her being her naked, scarred back, the lines of silver shadowed by the morning sun streaming in the window.

He is a fool. He is a wretched, debased fool, who has ruined his wife’s happiness, and his own, with pitifully little effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning from above, if needed: Poe lets a boy be whipped who made a mistake, and Rey calls him on it. Like, really calls him on it. She reacts with understandable grief and rage due to her own past experiences with being whipped, and she says some horrible things about herself in the process. Poe is devastated by the confrontation and has a lot of unhappy thoughts.
> 
>  
> 
> End Note:  
> Uh, I promise he'll earn her forgiveness, just...realistically later on....


	4. Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poe and Rey despair separately  
> Poe tries to make amends  
> Rey witnesses a moment surely intended to be private  
> Poe and Rey reconcile and work on having more communication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone told me of the word "Flangst" (fluff + angst) so here,  
> have some flangst.
> 
>  
> 
> Smut alert; consensual wild married make-up sex (not graphically described)

The first night was the worst.

Poe sat in his window, clutching at his hair, gasping for breath while panic overwhelmed his senses in a way it had never accomplished before; he has faced pirates, slain enemy sailors, destroyed fleets, and defended his country, but the knowledge that his wife may now abhor him, may now find him cruel and untrustworthy, threatened to vanquish him where he stood. He was adrift in his misery, unaware of any part of his surroundings, and had his manservant not come to find him the next morning, he may not have risen from his position at all.

Now, it has been a week since his wife slept at his side, and Poe fears he will lose his mind. Rey sits across from him at breakfast, pale and wan, and his heart grieves to have her so close but separate from him.

“Good morning, Mrs. Dameron,” he greets her each day, standing at the table while she enters the room.

“Good morning, Commander,” she responds, without fail, no smile on her face, no expression at all, just an echoing emptiness that threatens to stop his heart.

She disappears after breakfast, and he does not see her again until supper most days. Then, he will ask, “How was your day, Mrs. Dameron?”

She will look at him steadily, utensil loose in her hand and no animation in her lovely face, and she says, each day, “Pleasant, Commander. And I hope yours was as well?” He nods each time, too sick to say anything more, their meal passing in silence before Rey asks to be excused, at which point she will push away from the table, Poe standing in unison, and she exits the room rapidly, head bowed.

Each night, he hesitates outside her door, knowing her to be on the other side preparing for bed, and each night, his hand pauses right before making contact with the wood. Poe cannot bring himself to knock. She does not wish to speak to him, that much is clear. Her room is her sanctuary; he would be a cad to invade it, no matter how much his soul cries out for her while he attempts to sleep without her by his side.

On the eighth day after he destroyed the light in his life, he spies Thomas, the kitchen boy, working slowly in the front hall.

“Thomas,” he says, clearing his throat. The boy startles and straightens up, eyeing him warily. “No, no,” he shakes his head, fervently. “I only wish to ask after your health. Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy bows, hastily and Poe grits his teeth. The boy is terrified of him. “The … ointment Dr. Andor gave me worked very well, thank you.”

“Good,” Poe coughs again and smiles at him. The boy’s mouth twitches in response. “I am … I am very sorry, Thomas, for the way you were treated. The man who suggested your punishment has been let go. I was a fool for letting it happen, and I was distracted, and I apologize. I hope you forgive me one day.”

Thomas’s eyes widen so much, Poe thinks they might fall out of his head. “Uh—” the boy flounders, briefly. “You are… forgiven?”

“I have not earned it yet,” Poe smiles at him. “But thank you all the same, sire. Tell me, Thomas, where are you from?”

Thomas answers with the name of a small hamlet in a neighboring county, and Poe nods in recognition.

“Do you miss it?” Poe asks curiously.

“No sir,” the boy laughs, still holding a cleaning rag in his hand. He fidgets with it before responding. “It was not fine like Yavin, and my mum and papa passed away three winters ago. It was Yavin or the poorhouse, and I’m ever so grateful that this was where I ended up.”

The memory of his wife regaling him of her tragic childhood surges through him so quickly, Poe is shocked he does not fall backwards into the past.

“I am grateful as well,” Poe smiles at him. “And tell me, Thomas, was there anything about Yavin that you wish to change?”

“No sir,” Thomas looks startled at the question. “You are a kind master, and we are happy on the staff. Never hungry, and a good routine.”

 _But I let you be beaten,_ Poe thinks, aghast. _How could I be considered kind?_

“And what is your favorite thing about Yavin?” He asks, genuinely wondering. He sits on the window seat and smiles at Thomas, who looks inescapably bashful.

The boy shuffles his feet and rubs his neck, a gesture that Poe himself often makes when being scolded or feeling embarrassed; his face turns pink, and it is a full moment before he answers. “Sir, I – it would not be proper, sir, for me to say, I should think.”

“Of course it is proper, I did ask you,” Poe points out. He wonders if he will say ‘food’ or perhaps mention the couch in the upper floors that Poe knows from his own childhood is particularly delightful to jump upon, but Thomas say something else entirely.

“The best thing about Yavin,” the boy takes a deep breath to steady himself, and he finishes in a rush. “Is the Lady Dameron.”

Poe grins without hesitation. “I will tell you a secret, Thomas.” He leans in with a conspiratorial smile on his face; Thomas leans in as well. “Mrs. Dameron is my favorite thing about Yavin as well.”

Thomas gives him a real, full, genuine smile _;_ Poe feels as though he may slowly be earning his redemption when he offers to give Thomas the afternoon off from his regular tasks to go into the village and buy some treats for Mrs. Dameron – the task makes Thomas’s entire face alight in joy and purpose.

He slips him some extra shillings and whispers, “Chocolate is her favorite,” and Thomas scampers off with the particular instruction to purchase some candy for his own consumption.

***

**

The first night was the worst, or so Rey thought.

She sat upon the edge of her bathtub, shaking, for a full quarter hour after her husband heeded her request and exited her chambers.

Rey sobbed loudly the moment the door shut behind him; a war raged inside her between the desire to call him back to her side immediately - to have him kiss her, press his body against her and comfort her- and, the justified anger that coursed through her breast, telling her to distance herself from her darling husband until she devised a way to truly forgive him.

The next hours passed in torment, but Rey knew that she could not avoid a conversation with her husband for long. She dressed herself in her nightshirt and dressing gown, a pretty blue one Poe had ordered for her from Paris (he had cooed like a dove when she wore it the first time, and blushed when she let it fall to the floor, and he discovered that she wore nothing at all under it), and walked to his door.

Her hands trembled before she knocked, but remembering his tradition of kindness and goodness, his desire that should they have an openness in all things, and the horror on his face when he realized what he had let happen and the subsequent feeling of disrespect it had caused in his wife, Rey steeled herself with the understanding that Poe would not shut her out, would not hold her anger against her.

She knocked, softly. “Commander?” She said, louder than she normally would speak this close to midnight, when not in her quarters she shares with Poe. “Commander Dameron?” There was sound from inside the room – he was awake and inside the room.

Rey knocked, one more time. “Poe, darling?” She tried, risking the impropriety of such an endearment outside their room.

 _His_ room.

Which remained closed to her.

Blushing furiously, Rey gathered her gown around her body and fled back to her assigned rooms, back to the cold bed that lacked her husband. She fell into a deep, exhausted sleep; when she rose the next day, she wore the blue dress that Poe had often called his favorite, and went down to breakfast, after failing to pinch life into her cheeks.

Her anxiety overwhelmed her before she entered the dining room, and she fretted over Poe’s reaction to her anger against him. Would he have realized this morning how improper it was for a wife to yell at a husband in such a fashion? Would he have called for the priest already, to seek an annulment?

Rey has not given him an heir – her courses had paused last month, and she had been so hopeful, but they had resumed two weeks ago. When she had explained to Poe that she was unable to lie with him that night, he had only smiled at her and kissed her nose before wrapping his arms around her and falling asleep (doubtlessly unsatisfied), but despite his patience, he cannot be happy with her lack of productivity.

Now, she has screamed at him, sobbed in front of him like a child, exposed the depth of her unsuitability to be a bride for a high-bred gentleman, a decorated war hero no less. There can be no possible reason for him to wish them to remain wed.

Rey walked into the room, and spotted Poe, who stood awkwardly at the head of the table. The sight of him in the early day caused her heart to swell, and she remembered powerfully how much she loves him, how much they had suffered to be together, and hope stirred in her breast.

Then, Poe said, in a stilted voice she has never heard before directed at her, “Good morning, Mrs. Dameron.”

Rey felt her heart stutter, and all parts of herself that still knew the meaning of hope and optimism of a better day faded away. “Good morning, Commander.” She whispered, taking her seat and staring at the tureen in front of her.

All days since have been the same, and Rey despairs at her husband ever loving her again – and she hates herself for caring, given his behavior last week.

***

Nine days after their argument, Rey does not go down to breakfast. She is too tired to rise from bed, and at first, she ignores Mrs. Kalonia when she comes in.

“Oh, child,” the older woman sighs. “If you would speak to the Commander, perhaps this would sort itself out. He loves you so powerfully.”

Rey turns to face her, still buried under covers piteously. “But, Mrs. Kalonia,” Rey protests. “He will not say more than five words to me at a time. He is furious with me for losing my temper with him; and I am not entirely sure I have forgiven him.”

It is more than she should say to a servant, but Rey was once a servant as well – the very cause of her argument with Poe – and she knows that class has nothing to do with wisdom. She has met a good deal too many empty-headed aristocrats to doubt that piece of knowledge.

“I think you will find the commander has never been furious with you in the entire time he has known you,” Mrs. Kalonia raises her eyebrows. “I do not think he is capable of any emotion towards you that is not entirely based in love.”

She has known Poe since infancy, so Rey does not wish to contradict her. She smiles instead, tight-lipped, and Kalonia sighs, leans over, and brushes a hand over Rey’s brow.

“I will let the commander know that you are ill,” she says. “Please consider granting him an audience when he doubtlessly sends for every doctor in the county and then hovers in the corner of the room while they attend to you.” This causes Rey to smile genuinely, an expression returned by Kalonia, and she lets herself doze once more.

There is a knock on her door – the clock on the fireplace’s mantle reads that it is half past ten – and Rey sits up, rubbing her eyes. “You may enter,” she calls, once she is sure the blankets are pulled up around her lap, her gown closed over her nightshirt.

Poe appears when the door opens, with the appearance of high stress. Rey smiles at him, timidly, but she hopes invitingly, but he does not walk past the doorway.

“Good morning, Commander,” she says weakly. She does not beg him to join her in bed; she does not beg him to tell her what he thinks of her now, now that he knows the truth of her wild temper.

“Do you require a doctor?” he asks, face ashen. “Are you ill, Mrs. Dameron?”

Poe so rarely calls her Mrs. Dameron when they are not in public; and when he does so in the privacy of their chambers, he certainly he has never called her that without a smile of private delight on his face.

It feels like a formality now. He finds her a burden, doubtlessly.

“There is not much wrong with me, I am sure,” Rey answers, looking down at her lap. “I will rise from bed shortly, do not worry yourself over my silliness.”

“R—” Poe cuts himself off and clears his throat, and Rey stares at him then, beseechingly. _Is he so furious with me, he cannot say my name?_ “If you are certain, I will not send for the doctor. I know it peeves you when I fuss.” He smiles at her faintly, and bows. “I will leave you to rest.” He is gone before Rey can protest. She is so, so tired.

She sleeps the rest of the day, and she skips all meals.

The next day, she rises before dawn and dresses by herself, determined to not force Poe to worry over her a second longer than he has to; he seems tired of the responsibility already.

***

Rey walks the grounds with Bartleby as her only companion the next day. She turns the corner towards an enclosed garden, her favorite of the estate, and overhears a familiar voice.

Sweet Thomas, the kitchen boy, is speaking with someone. Rey smiles, excited to see a face that looks perpetually happy to see her, and walks towards the source. He had brought her candy the other day, a delighted smile on his face, and a refusal to tell her where he had gotten it. She worried that he had spent his own money on it, but he assured her it was a gift.

Thomas is in the garden and – he speaks with Commander Dameron.

Rey pauses at the entrance to the walled-in space, and peeks in. What she sees astounds her:

Poe is kneeling on the ground, a position that will surely cause grass stains on his pretty, cream-colored britches, and there is a ledger and a book opened on a bench in front of him. Thomas sits, legs crossed, on the bench, and stares down in wonder, a pencil in his hand while Poe walks him through letters.

“That is a very fine B, Master Thomas,” Poe praises him. “And I think your C is even finer.” Thomas giggles, looking very much his eleven years, and Poe reaches up to ruffle his hair affectionately. “When we are done with letters, we can move on to your numbers.” Poe pats the open ledger. “And you are so good with those after such little study, I worry that you will open up shop and buy Yavin out from underneath me one day.”

“I would let you stay in the attic,” Thomas says cheekily, and Poe tilts his head back and roars with laughter. Rey covers her mouth to hide her smile, and her heart aches with how much she loves her husband, aches at his kindness, at his obvious attempt to seek Thomas’s forgiveness.

Thomas’s forgiveness. Not hers. He does not do this for her; he does this in private. It makes it all the more meaningful, this gesture of his, and Rey realizes that she is spying on her husband in a private moment. She prepares to flee before she can be detected, but Bartleby barks in excitement at the raising of his master’s voice, and Poe looks up before Rey can turn tail.

“Mrs. Dameron?” He calls, flushing. Thomas blushes too, standing up hastily from the bench to bow to her.

“I did not mean to intrude,” she says, apologetically. She walks into the garden a few paces, just enough that she will not have to raise her voice as much to be heard. “My sincerest apologies for interrupting your lesson, Thomas.”

“No, ma’am,” Thomas breathes, still bowing. “I am sorry.”

“For what?” Poe asks, still sprawled out in the ground. He looks up to Thomas in amusement. “What could you have possibly done?”

“I do not know,” Thomas says. “But I am sorry anyway.”

“Don’t be,” Rey says, smiling kindly at him. “I expressly forbid it.”

“Yes ma’am,” Thomas nods hastily.  

“I will leave you two gentlemen to finish your work,” Rey says, still smiling at Thomas, avoiding Poe’s eyes entirely. His gaze is heavy on her face, and she cannot bear to meet it, not now, when she feels so vulnerable. “I wish you luck, Thomas.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dameron.” He bows once more, and Rey does too, amused when he flushes a deeper shade of red. Rey turns at last to her husband, but he straightens out the papers on the bench and does not see her. Rey leaves without bidding him farewell, and flees back to the privacy of her rooms.

***

A hesitant knock at her door sounds that night, around eight. Rey rises from bed, gathering her old, warm dressing gown around her – it is cold tonight, in late October, two weeks before her birthday, and the fire does not warm her the way her husband would – before she bids them enter.

Poe opens the door, and it bangs against the adjacent wall; Rey feels like the heroine of a Gothic novella, as wind wails outside, trees lashing against the rain. The scene only misses the crack of thunder, the flash of lightning to illuminate the dark-haired Hero in the doorway.

“Commander?” Rey asks, querulously.

“Rey,” he sweeps in, looking wild. “Rey, please, hear me, I cannot – I cannot live this way any longer.”

Her heart shatters. “So it is as I feared,” She whispers, wrapping her arms around herself and clenching her eyes shut. “You do not wish to remain married to me.”

“What?” She forces herself to look at him, and sees that he almost sways where he stands. “What – Rey, my love, why – _why_ would you say something like that?”

“You do not speak to me,” Rey weeps, suddenly. She is too exhausted, still too hurt to calm herself. “You will not look at me. I – I have feared you wished for annulment after seeing my temper, after seeing that I was not fit to be your wife.”

“Why would you not be fit to be my wife?” Whatever violence of passion possessed him to storm into her room seems temporarily abated in his exhausted confusion.

**

Poe stares at his wife in horror. _Does she wish for an annulment? Is that why she asks?_ He would, of course, grant her one, if she could not bear his company. But that is not what she said. She said _he_ wished for an annulment.

“Rey, my love, please,” Poe walks a little closer to her, but stops when he sees her fold into herself. “Rey, tell me why you think you are not fit to be my wife. Surely, you must know, I find you perfect in every conceivable way.”

“Then why have you not spoken to me?” Rey asks, hands still clenched into small fists. “Why do you ignore me at meals? Why – why did you not answer the door when I came to you, ten days ago?”

He stumbles back slightly at her question. _Ten days ago?_ “You – you came to me?” He remembers sitting in abject misery in his room, lost to the world.

“I tried to knock and ask you if I could enter, but you did not respond,” Rey looks faint, and Poe, oh Poe is fortune’s fool. “I thought you were too furious at me and my short temper, and then at breakfast the next day you did not speak to me beyond a greeting.”

“I thought you did not wish to speak to me,” Poe explains, mentally berating himself. _She is shy, you fool. She is shy, and spent so much of her life in isolation and torment, and you expected her to come to you to speak?_

But she had come to him to speak; he cannot imagine what it had cost her pride to knock on his door. And he –

“I did not hear you,” he continues, fighting the urge to be sick. “I was not aware of your presence, Rey, please, believe me. I was not aware of anything, so lost was I in my misery. I thought you hated me forever.”

“I love you,” Rey frowns at him, and he smiles despite his agony. Only Rey could scowl at him while confessing her love, and still be so endearing. “Of course I love you, I was mad at you, but I knew you to be contrite, and I know now especially that you are looking after Thomas. That is all I wished – I wished to know that you did not lack respect for people just because they were of a lesser class than you.”

“Of course I do not,” Poe grips his hands together, trying not to rip at his hair in frustration. _I could have held her the last ten days, if I had just been wiser, had just been more open to her._ “I am so sorry, Rey, for making you think anything other than that. I respect you, I cherish you – I love you, my sunbeam, and I am so impossibly sorry. You could not conceive how sorry I am.”

“Poe,” Rey’s shoulders slump slightly, and she turns her eyes, shadowed by exhaustion, on him. “I have missed you.” Her lower lip quivers when she says this, and Poe’s heart threatens to break inside of him.

“My sunbeam,” he groans, striding forward. “Please, I must—”

“Yes,” Rey nods, frantically, and he pulls her into his arms, close to his body. “Yes, Poe, yes –”

“We have more to discuss,” he gasps, once she is pressed against him.

“Later,” Rey’s hands scrabble at his cravat, and she loosens it quickly. “We can discuss whatever you wish, later, please, Commander.” Poe covers her mouth with his own quickly, undoes the sash of her dressing gown, and slides it off her shoulders.

“Here?” He asks, already uncomfortable in his breeches, needing to be free of them. He tugs Rey to him once more, and she gasps in pleasure when his lips find her throat.

“No,” she begs, and he stops, thinking she means for him to release her. “No, I mean – I wish for us to lie in our bed.” He looks at her face and sees her wrinkle her nose in distaste at her small bed. “I have not been able to sleep for ten days; I miss our bed.”

“It has missed you, too.” The statement pulls a delightful giggle from his wife, a giggle that’s only echoed when he lowers himself slightly, to grab the backs of her slender thighs, and he pulls her up, her center pressed against his abdomen. She kisses him powerfully, her hands framing his jaw, her legs wrapped around his waist.

“Rey,” he groans, staggering backwards to the door. “I fear I will not be able to stop, once we reach our chambers.”

“Then do not stop,” she murmurs. “God above, do not stop, Commander.” Poe nods, kissing her once more, and he strides down the hall blindly, Rey’s hands pulling at his shirt, trying to untuck it from her precarious position in his arms.

His door is already open – he had left it open, in the hopes that after he visited her, she might be induced to return to their room – and he walks inside rapidly, kicking the door shut behind him, and depositing his wife on the bed. Her hands are on him in an instant, and together they pull his shirt over his head and undo his breeches. He slides them down his legs and steps out of them, eagerly, and when he straightens back up, entirely bare, he sees that Rey has removed her nightclothes, and lies, perfectly naked, upon their bed.

“Well?” She asks, breathlessly. She lifts one foot off the ground and rests it on the bed at an angle that gives him an intoxicating view. “I thought you would not stop, Commander Dameron.”

It is an almost inhuman growl that tears from his throat as he rushes to the bed, and he and Rey tangle together with a level of passion he has never known.

Poe shouts when he reaches his peak, and he forgets to be mortified because his wife screams in pleasure at the same time, her nails digging into his back; he thinks, wildly, that their souls are unified, that they are together in all things, that they have become one, just as was promised.

He holds her, both of them shaking, in silence for almost ten minutes afterwards, and Rey kisses his fingers idly while he strokes her hair with his other hand.

“I love you,” he murmurs to her, and she smiles peacefully up at him. “And no matter how cross you are with me in the future, please, know – there is nothing, no amount of pride, no level of dignity, no oath I would not forsake to win your forgiveness, to ensure that you sleep only at my side until the end of my days.”

“I know.” Rey’s answer is simple, but her smile is blinding. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meep meep meep
> 
>  
> 
> Some familiar faces will show up next time, folks ;)


	5. Intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey and Poe share a private moment as husband and wife, following their reconciliation, and Poe welcomes a familiar face to Yavin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: I bumped up the rating of the entire fic to explicit with this chapter!  
> They roleplay. I hope it's cuter than anything else? We'll see.
> 
> Also, mild warning at the very last part of the chapter, where Rey references the assault in her past (non graphic/non detailed, mostly in passing)

Mrs. Dameron wakes up, curled much like a cat, under the thick, warm comforter of her marriage bed. She yawns and stretches, blinking in the early grey light that permeates her bedchamber.

Rey finds herself in a particular state of bliss this morning; she had not slept properly in her husband’s absence from her side, and the much-needed respite of the past night has already done wonders for her temperament, and her soul. She sits up right, lifting her arms to either side and pulling backwards towards the headboard; while moving into a seated position, she realizes two things of note:

The first, she is naked as the day she was born. Her nightdress lies somewhere in the corner of the room, thrown aside in the heat of her husband’s passion. It is most likely torn, and the chill of the room is far too strong for her to attempt moving from the warmth of bed to reclaim it, so she stays where she is, wrapped in the sheet, and still without a stitch of clothing.

The second, she is sore. Poe had been so eager in his ministrations, and Rey so receptive, that she had not noticed any particular wound as it occurred, but the ache in her loins suggests the near-violence of their reunion the previous night. Even recalling the wildness they shared in the darkness brings a flush to her cheeks, and a fluttering to her heart.

At one point her husband had pulled her from the bed and picked her up, helping her to wrap her legs around his waist, while he strode forward to the nearby wall, pressing her up against it and thrusting into her with abandon, her head fairly slamming backwards as she screamed in ecstasy. She does not know if she should be mortified or not over her wild behavior- remembering the scored lines her nails had carved into her husband’s shoulders, Rey believes a lady _should_ be mortified.

But, while she crosses her legs comfortably, feeling the evidence of their union still on the insides of her thighs, Rey cannot even remember the meaning of embarrassment.

Her husband emerges from the washroom, wiping a towel on the back of his neck. Rey remember how to truly blush, now.

“Commander Dameron,” she says, trying to sound cheeky but only sounding breathless. “Are you not cold?”

Poe takes the towel and runs it to the front of his chest, wiping slowly over his collarbone - and he had bathed, yesterday, so this must be for show - and smirks at her. “I do not mind the cold,” he says, “but perhaps you have an idea of how I can warm myself?”

“Yes, I think I might,” Rey says, crooking her finger at him. Poe throws the towel behind himself blindly and traipses to the bedside. “Let me tell you of a truly secret and private method for warming yourself.”

“Yes, my sunbeam?” Poe asks, now so close to her, she would merely need to extend her arm lazily to brush his erect member. “I think you will find me all ears.”

“Perhaps not _all_ ears,” Rey replies, smiling at him meaningfully. She is greatly encouraged by the blush on Poe’s cheeks. “But the secret to becoming warm,” she begins to lower the sheet, and Poe’s eyes darken (and what a fascination that had been, when she had first discovered that trick of the human body), and Rey flutters her eyelashes at him coquettishly. “...is exercise!” She pulls the covers up to her chin and lies back, laughing merrily.

“You tease me,” Poe accuses solemnly. “But I was told that a happy marriage would come from listening to my wife, so I will oblige you.” He begins to stretch, still stone-faced, and Rey finds herself highly distracted by the ripple and play of his muscles. She tries to swallow, but finds her throat to dry to obey the desire. Poe notices her lustful occupation, and he smirks at it.

“How is it we can know each other so frequently in the night,” Rey whispers, genuinely surprised, “and yet I find myself still needing you in the morning?”

Poe stops his movements and stares at her, cock standing proudly, the morning sun catching on his dark curls. “You need me?” He asks, all jest gone from his face. “Truly?”

Rey nods, biting her lip. “I always need you,” she says honestly. “The last weeks were torment, Poe, I need you always, and to have you so far from me-”

Poe groans and stumbles forward, pulling back the cover enough that he may slip between the sheets. He rolls over her, kissing her passionately, lips pressing into her collarbone, her throat, her ear, her cheek. “It was a torment for me as well,” Poe says. “I never want to fight with you again, my sunbeam.”

“That was not a fight,” Rey says, tugging on his sideburn playfully. She knows he does not mind - quite the opposite - the pulling of his hair, so she smiles when he groans in response. “A fight would have involved broken pottery, I believe. It was not a fight - it was …” she struggles to find the word. “It was certainly unpleasant, but it was also something avoidable, I think, if we will only speak more to each other in the future.”

“Yes,” Poe murmurs, kissing her sweetly under her jaw. The brush of his beard against the sensitive skin makes her gasp. “Plenty of speaking to be done in the future. Just - maybe not so much speaking right now?”

“You speak an awful lot while we act as husband and wife,” Rey laughs, all the same. “I wonder at you being interested in it at all, you are so able to speak. I myself am often far too distracted to formulate a single thought.”

“I do not say anything that is not in my heart.” Poe looks truly concerned when he looks in her eyes. He strokes his hand over her hair, soothingly. “Rey, my love, believe me. I am very interested in the proceedings when we lie together.”

She pretends to sigh, mightily. “Then I suppose you will just have to demonstrate that interest.” Her smile begins as wicked, but it fades into something entirely dictated by fondness and affection. “My silly husband.”

“Silly, ridiculous, enamored,” Poe lists as he kisses at the corner of her jaw and begins to drag his lips downward. “You may call me whatever you want, Mrs. Dameron - you still have given me the great pleasure of knowing that I cause you to be - what was the phrase? - _far too distracted to formulate a single thought._ ”

“Did I say that?” Rey asks, smiling down at him while he runs his tongue between her breasts. “I spoke too soon. I find myself rather in control of my thoughts now, Commander.”

“My love,” Poe groans, eyes shut tightly. “Oh, Rey, forgive me.”

“Why?” Rey whispers, sitting up slightly so she can look upon him and see his expression with increased ease.

“Because when you call me Commander, when I am so close to you -” He clears his throat and opens his eyes, showing that there is no brown left in them. “It makes me - wish for things I should not wish for, picture things I should not picture.”

“I would not deny you anything,” Rey smiles at him encouragingly, carding her fingers through his hair. Poe shakes his head miserably and presses his lips into her hip bone. “Tell me, please? I will not censure you.”

Poe coughs and rests his head between her hip and pelvis, slowly rubbing his beard against her skin. Rey mewls and shifts her thighs together, and Poe sighs mightily, a hand slipping between her legs to circle her bud lazily while he speaks.

“I think of my ship,” he says. When his eyes return to meet hers, her breath catches at the intensity of his gaze. “I think of - of shameful things, of what I would have done, were you on my ship when I still had command, how we could have coupled in the darkness of my quarters with only the sea as witness.”

“I thought women were not allowed on ships,” Rey smirks at him. “Perhaps that is the reason why?

“I see you are still capable of thought,” Poe remarks. “I shall have to remedy that.” He runs his smart mouth to where she needs him most, and Rey does truly forget to speak for a time.

“Poe,” she whimpers after he has proven himself dedicated to his task. Then, mischief forms in her mind, while he busies himself between her legs. “Commander Dameron,” she says, tugging on his curls. “Commander Dameron, I only have half an hour before my watch.”

Her husband pauses and raises his eyes to her, and Rey swallows against the surge of lust in her stomach at the way his beard glistens near his mouth. “What was that, wife?” He asks, eyes wide.

“I said,” Rey nudges him with her bent knee, and he kisses it subconsciously, quickly ducking his head to the side to press his lips against her bare skin. “I only have half an hour before I must begin my watch, Commander Dameron.”

His eyes twinkle. “You mean to follow my madness?” He asks, his laugh full of gravel.

“Yes,” Rey says, nodding solemnly. “Yes..sir.”

A rumble builds in Poe’s chest, and Rey quakes at the sound; he has never uttered such a noise in their bed. He sounds more animal than man.

She finds that she rather likes it.

Poe’s hands are on her hips, then, rubbing circles into the bone lightly with his fingers, while he climbs up to hover above her, resting his weight on his forearms while he looks her in the face.

“Should a first mate be in the commander’s quarters so late at night?” He asks sternly, pretending to frown at her; the effect is somewhat broken when bites his lip while studying her naked chest.

“I am sorry, sir,” Rey says, trying to tilt her hips into his, but he pulls away cruelly at the last second. “I only came in here to borrow -” she screws her face up as she thinks. “ A cutlass?”

“You would borrow a cutlass from a Commander?” Poe snorts with genuine laughter, breaking the persona he had constructed only moments before.

“What can I say, sir, I need a sword, and I know you to be in possession of one.” Rey pokes at his own saber playfully, and Poe swats her hand.

“Insubordinate,” he scoffs. “Mocking a commander, planning to steal from a superior officer, and alone in my quarters at night. I should have known to expect such deviance when I let a woman aboard my ship.”

“So severe upon the fairer sex,” Rey purrs. “But sir, I will double my work tonight while I perform my duties at watch. I humbly beg your pardon. And, in my defense, the Commander _did_ let me aboard the ship, for a good reason.”

“Aye?” Poe asks, arching a brow at her. “What was that, lassie?”

“To warm his bed,” she answers, widening her eyes and arching her back so her breasts brush against his chest. “It is ever so lonely in this bunk at night, is it not, Commander?”

“Aye, it is,” Poe murmurs, briefly looking the slightest bit sad - Rey’s heart pounds from it. As if realizing that she requires distraction, Poe leans down then, and kisses her earlobe so hard he might have bitten it - he _did_ bite it, Rey realizes with a gasp, as his teeth scrape against her skin while he pulls away. “I suppose I could add to your duties tonight, Kenobi.”

The use of her maiden name causes Rey to blush and shake. “Commander Dameron,” she gasps, as he bites her neck. “ _Oh._ ” His member, hot and hard, bumps against her, and she shivers at the contact, spreading her legs wider. “Is this how you do things aboard _The Black Beauty_?”

“Only when there’s a beautiful woman in my bed,” Poe admits, taking himself in hand and slipping against her gently, once, twice. “Only then. You’ll find sailing a rather spartan experience otherwise.”

“Remember,” Rey says, wrapping her legs around his waist to pull her husband closer. “I must away to my work in only twenty minutes time.”

“That is time enough,” Poe says, kissing her fiercely before pressing into her. “Time enough to make you rejoice that you ever became a sailor.”

“With a Commander so handsome, ‘tis no surprise that I rejoice,” Rey says cheekily. Then, she gasps, the sound quickly becoming a scream. “Oh, _P_ \--Commander,” she says, clawing at his shoulders. “Surely they did not teach you that when you joined His Royal Majesty’s Navy!”

“No,” he admits, grinning at her confidently while he increases the pace of his movements with enough force that the headboard rattles against the wall. He shakes his head, causing his curls to violently toss in and out of his face. “No, my wife taught me that.”

Rey shrieks with laughter, bracing her hand on the wood behind her, if only to stop her head from slamming into it. “Poe,” she laughs, screaming the name louder when he twists his hips in such a fashion to make her see stars. “Poe!”

His large hand hovers over her mouth, and she nods in agreement. Poe lowers his palm flat against her lips, and he shushes her. “We must be quiet,” he scolds, not slowing his hips down, clearly not willing to, not for all the tea in India. “Or we will alert the others of such preferential treatment.”

Rey moans and nods, one hand grasping at his wrist with the other scrambles at his hip to pull him closer.

They reach a dizzying conclusion, together, minutes later, and Poe pulls his hand away from her mouth for the last half-minute, so that he can clutch her to his body more tightly. In those thirty precious seconds, Rey demonstrates just how many obscenities she knows, shouting words of encouragement, spewing such filth that Leia Solo must be blushing miles away. Poe groans, much quieter than normal, body locked and tendons of his neck straining as he clenches his eyes shut.

He lies there, panting, evidently attempting to keep his weight off of her person. “Mrs. Dameron,” he manages to say, still gasping for breath. “My darling sunbeam, has anyone ever told you that you curse like a sailor?”

“In my defense, my husband taught me,” Rey teases him, and Poe laughs, heartily, into her shoulder.

***

**

In early December, Poe fusses over his wife more and more as he notices her adverse reaction to the cold. Typically, Rey scolds him for being overbearing, calling him Mother Hen, and a worrywart, but when he wraps blankets around her and stokes the fire in their rooms at night, she does not complain, merely hums gratefully and works her way in closer to him under their quilts.

Poe kisses the cold tip of her nose before she falls asleep each night, claiming to be combating the icicles growing in it. No matter how much he teases her about being a rare hothouse flower, she always gets her revenge when she places her feet between his shins and wiggles her ice-like toes in victory.

He will yelp and moan and complain about it - “I should fear you dead, sunbeam, were it not for your laughter!” - but all the same, his heart glows with warmth when she burrows into his chest, tucking her face into his collarbone, and sighing sweetly with contentment. Poe would give her all the warmth in his body if he thought for a moment it would make her life easier or more pleasant by even a centimeter.

The winter will be tasking upon his wife, he realizes. Winter had been his favorite season (spring is the favored time now, the season where his wife agreed to marry him, had married him, had lain with him the first time), and he had been looking forward to the promise of snow and the activities that come with it, the warmth of fireplaces and the thick cloaks - but watching Rey frown at the darkening sky, draw her shawl closer to her body, Poe realizes that he does not wish for winter for the first time in his life.

Still, he dedicates himself to making her laugh, to keeping her warm, to guaranteeing her happiness in every moment.

Today, weeks before Christmas, he sits with his wife in the library, and when he is sure they are alone, he sits in his armchair and lies in wait. Rey walks past him, towards the atlas, when he tugs on her hand, and when she smiles at him, he risks pulling her onto his lap.

“Poe,” she giggles, wrapping her arms around his neck and curling her legs up onto the chair with him. “What is this about?”

“You looked cold,” he whispers, pulling a blanket up from the side of the chair, one he had placed there weeks prior in a fortuitous demonstration of foresight. “Let me warm you.”

Rey wants to scold him, he can tell, but after a moment of looking cross, she bundles into his chest happily, resting her head on his shoulder while he throws the blanket over their laps. “I love you,” she whispers, rubbing her upturned nose into his throat. There is no other feeling like it in the world, Poe knows, the intimacy of holding his wife. He had motives less pure when he pulled her to him, but now, he knows he is content to just hold her in this fashion.

“I love you too, sunbeam,” he tells her, running his hand up and down her slender arm. “You make me so happy.”

“Can I tell you something?” she asks softly, her hand coming to rest, curled, on his chest over his heart.

“Anything,” he says earnestly, covering her hand with his own. His thumb rubs over the silver of her wedding band. “You may always tell me what is on your mind.”

“This is,” Rey swallows and buries her face into his neck so she cannot look him in the eyes. Poe holds her tighter, frowning with worry. “This is the first time …”

“First time for what, my sunbeam?” Poe murmurs, truly concerned now. He kisses the side of her head that he can reach.

“I - I do not ever recall being warm. In the winter,” Rey whispers, and Poe’s heart clenches violently in his chest. “I slept outside several winters, under a small shelter, and even with Ben, we did not always have enough to keep the lamps lit and fires stoked throughout the winter. I certainly did not have these fine dresses, or warm blankets.”

“But what about your winters at Alderaan?” Poe asks, curiously. “Surely you had those things there.” He _knows_ she did, having visited Alderaan himself in the winter.

“It was warm,” Rey acknowledges. “But I was not. When I am with you, the cold does not seep into my blood in quite the same way. With you, I am finally warm.” She lifts her face to look at him, and he smooths his hand over her cheek, regretting to find wetness there. “I feel safe with you, Poe, like the winter cannot get me, like I will not be cold by your side.”

“You will never be cold again,” Poe promises, fervently. “I swear to God himself, Rey.” He kisses her then, forgetting his thoughts of chaste intimacy from the previous moment. Poe needs his wife, needs her warm and close to him, needs to demonstrate the many ways a man can help his wife.

They are interrupted by a knock at the door, which causes Rey to squeak and pull away from him. Poe holds her in place, adamantly, and says loudly, “You may enter.”

The servant that walks in looks mortified to find his master and mistress in such a position - Poe wishes to laugh at the look of bemusement, for they are husband and wife, and all their clothes are on, regardless of his best intentions - and he bows hastily. “My lord,” he says quickly. “My lord, you have a visitor.”

“A visitor?” Poe asks, curiously.

“We have let him into the foyer, for he had a name Mrs. Kalonia recognized. But, you will need to come and greet him yourself.” The man shifts his feet, clearly eager to be dismissed, so Poe thanks him and waves his hand to do as he wishes.

Rey stands, blushing, and smooths out her skirts. Poe follows her and kisses his wife tenderly. “We will use this library for more pleasurable activities yet, my sunbeam.” She gasps at him, but he smiles cheekily and takes her hand, pulling her away from the room, and towards the front hall to greet their guests.

Mrs. Kalonia smiles at him, and then at Rey. “Commander Dameron,” she says. “A Mr. Tico is here to see you.”

Poe feels joy and elation course through him. “My sunbeam,” he says excitedly, pulling at his wife’s hand more eagerly. “You are about to meet the man who saved my life!” Rey looks at him with excitement but also confusion, and they round the corner fully to see Finn Tico, and his wife Rose, the privateers who had pulled him from the ocean after the attack on _The Black Beauty._ He lets go of Rey’s hand to stride forward and embrace Finn, both men laughing uproariously. “And Rose, too!” He shouts, shaking her hand.

“I see I no longer have to worry about you stealing my husband away from me,” Mrs. Tico teases him, and Poe snorts. Then, he turns to see Rey’s reaction to their guests.

She stands, pale as a ghost, almost trembling in fright.

Poe remembers, then, that he does not actually know his wife’s opinions on certain … matters.

 _Surely she would not care where my friends come from_ Poe thinks, horrified. _But then why does she look so shocked?_

“Mrs. Dameron?” He asks, hoping to shake her from her tortured state. Rose takes his arm, alarmed, when Finn strides forward, quickly towards Rey.

A shout dies in Poe’s throat - why does Finn move with such purpose towards his wife? - when Rey shrieks, “Finn!”

She runs forward then, her feet tripping over themselves, and Finn matches her pace, catching her up in his arms, and embracing her as if she were a long-lost relative.

“Rey,” he sobs, “Sweet Rey, is it really you? You are safe?”

“Yes,” she nods. “And you? You found your Rose?”

Finn nods, and buries his face in Rey’s shoulder. They clutch at each other, and now Rose and Poe are the ones to wear looks of shock.

When the two apparent-friends part moments later, they are both wiping their eyes. “You did not tell me the love of your life was _Rey Kenobi,_ ” Finn says, grinning widely. “I would have been less afraid of you stealing away my wife with your charms.”

“Does everyone think I am prepared to steal their spouse or loved one away?” Poe asks mystified. Rose laughs, but Poe can only stare at his wife, who still cries.

Rey walks to him, and tugs on his arm. “Poe,” she whispers. “Finn is -” she turns and smiles at him once more before looking back to Poe. “Finn is the man who saved me, up in the North. He was the one who stopped -- who saved me from--” She cries more in earnest then, hiding her tears as well as she can behind her hand, and Poe pulls her to him, shielding her with his body while she weeps into his waistcoat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE'S A PLOT I SWEAR


	6. Hosting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey Dameron struggles with her duties as a hostess; she and Rose form a strong friendship; Rey practices her swordfighting, a concept Commander Dameron finds most intriguing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter that earns an E rating, oops! 
> 
> Warnings:  
> 1\. a character has a panic attack;  
> 2\. Finn/Poe discuss what happened to Rey - Finn describes Rey's behavior/appearance in the aftermath of the attack, and Poe has some violent thoughts. And, Finn /did/ something violent.  
> 3\. Smutty smut smut smut smut: implied marital relations as well as depicted marital relations. Swordplay as foreplay (oops), followed by passionate, rough, clothed sex

In the excitement that follows the arrival of the Ticos to Yavin Estate, Rey experiences an intense range of emotion in a short amount of time -

First, elation at joining once more in friendship with the kind and honorable Finn. He had been such a help to her following the death of her Uncle Ben, and his sweet temper and good nature had lifted her spirits when nothing else could. She would have been lost, desolate without his companionship, even if it caused rumors amongst the townsfolk that she was carrying on with a man from the continent of Africa.

Second, a powerful grief from the memory of not only Uncle Ben - Finn being a reminder of that time of her life - but also a powerful shame. Finn had seen her suffer such mortification - when he had pulled the man off of her, she was almost in a state of undress, her face bruised, mouth bleeding, and she had been almost wild in her retaliation towards the man’s cruelty. Finn had been entirely supportive of her clawing at the man’s face, had applauded her for breaking his nose, and had apprehended the man until a servant could fetch the sheriff to take him away. Despite Finn’s kindness, Rey despises that anyone in the word had witnessed her weep like a small child, had witnessed her brought to such depths of despair. Her husband has always called her strong; Finn knows how weak she had felt in that moment, and she cringes in embarrassment at the thought of it.

Third, an excitement at having guests in her home, her first time as a mistress of a house (Ben’s visits do not count, she thinks, no matter how much she enjoys hosting her brother because Ben does not require being impressed), and she rushes down to the kitchens after Rose and Finn have been shown to their rooms for the duration of their stay. Rey forgets to be cold in the chilly December air, now that she is flushed with purpose, and she gleefully orders a large dinner for her friend and his wife. 

Fourth, an anxiety, born very much from the same place as her excitement. Rey has never hosted guests before; she cares for Finn, had considered him a friend during a dark period of her life, but she does not truly know much about him. What if she insults him by accident; what if she insults his wife, the beautiful and fierce Rose; what if she fails to please Poe, who has known a grand life all his days, who has most likely hosted parties successfully before?

It is the last thought that has her pause at the top of the stairs, clutching at her middle while she gasps for breath. The tumult of the afternoon catches up with her, and she feels light-headed from it, wishes to sit, but there are things to be done, meals to plan, rooms to prepare - does Finn prefer whist to euchre? - she needs to speak with Mrs. Tico, make her feel welcome, has she snubbed her by accident in the last hour?

Poe walks by her, clearly heading for the drawing room where she can hear Rose and Finn conversing merrily on some topic that is indiscernible from this distance, and he rests his hand on her waist when he passes her. “Pardon me, Mrs. Dameron,” he says cheerfully. “Did you order a good breakfast for tomorrow?”  _ Breakfast. Tomorrow.  _

“I forgot,” Rey whispers, mortified. “I was thinking about dinner, and I -” She gasps for air again, but it is shallow, not useful in the least, and she cannot stop the hallway from spinning.

“That is quite alright,” Poe smiles at her kindly, but he must be disappointed in her, he must, she is a  _ failure,  _ she has no idea how to run a household, he must know by now that she is unsuitable -

He is speaking to her in a low voice and helping her to a nearby chaise. Her chaise, in her private rooms. When did they get there? What is Poe saying? Why can she not focus?’

She supplies what is left of her energy to listening to her husband, and hears him say with great alarm, “-just sit down, my sunbeam, breathe, I implore you,  _ breathe _ , do you feel faint?”

“Fainting over breakfast,” Rey gasps as he settles her against the cushions. “Fancy that.” She truly does faint, and when she opens her eyes again, it is to witness her husband barking orders at a servant as if the poor man were a sailor aboard a ship, his large hand soft on her brow even as his voice rises roughly.

“You will fetch Doctor Andor  _ directly,  _ I do not care if he is on house call, you will discover his location and find him, and bring him here, for Mrs. Dameron is very ill -”

“I am not ill,” Rey whispers, reaching to grab her husband’s sleeve. Both her voice and her grip are weak, and Poe turns and kneels at her side in on motion, and he clings to her hand, kissing her knuckles with tender passion.

“Sunbeam,” he whispers. “Relax, save your breath, it is alright -”

“I am not ill,” she repeats, in a stronger voice. “Commander Dameron, I assure you that I am well. I needed to catch my breath, I was feeling poorly from nerves, nothing else.” 

“Please, allow me to send for the doctor,” Poe begs her. “For my peace of mind. You were so still, Rey, so pale. I thought -” He shudders powerfully, and Rey’s heart aches at the sight of it, remembering how he still suffers from nightmares about her illness last spring, when she almost drove herself into an early grave from her intense grief, grief born of the misinformation that he had met a watery death. 

“I will consent to an examination,” Rey allows, and Poe takes a breath of relief - he is so odd, Rey muses. Her husband is so odd in his progressive ways; she could never have imagined a husband who took into account her opinion, especially when caught up in anxiety and heightened emotion. Rey knows enough of the world to understand many other husbands would have called for the doctor and forced the examination, whether or not she consented. 

“Thank you, sunbeam,” he murmurs, pressing his lips into her forehead. “Thank you.”

**

Doctor Andor arrives before nightfall, and he affectionately rolls his eyes at Poe’s anxiety. 

“People faint, Commander,” Andor informs him, walking up the stairs with Poe hovering at his side. He holds a hand out at the door, in front of Poe’s chest as if it block him, and smiles at him. “I would actually prefer to examine your wife alone, today.”

“Oh.” Poe does not know of a suitable argument against this, as Andor is the one with training, with the expertise, and he is merely the husband falling apart at the notion of any discomfort or illness in his wife. “Yes. Uh. Capital.” He nods and opens the door for the doctor; Cassian walks through, and Poe spies his wife sitting upright on the chaise, a blanket over her legs, her complexion remaining an odd mixture of flushed and pale.

“Do us a favor, Commander, and wait downstairs,” Andor suggests, raising a brow. Rey does not argue with the man, does not beg to keep her husband near, and Poe pretends that this does not somewhat wound him before he acquiesces and walks to the parlor where Finn and Rose are playing parlor games merrily. 

“How is Mrs. Dameron?” Rose asks, setting her cards down at once. “Is she well?”

“I do not know,” Poe sits in a chair at the table and sighs heavily. Finn grabs his arm and provides a comforting smile which Poe is obliged to return; it is very difficult to not smile at the amiable Finn. “She insists it was merely her nerves, but Mrs. Dameron has always demonstrated a constitution highly resistant to such afflictions.”

“It probably was not easy for her to see me without prior notice,” Finn says kindly, an air of understanding passing through him. “She must have been unprepared for visitors, in the first place, which is probably stressful as a hostess - “

“Please do assure her that we require no special treatment,” Rose says, interrupting her husband briefly. “Forgive me, Finn, but - she should not fret for planning over our stay, we are merely glad to be somewhere without bugs in the bed, or water coming in every time a wave goes underneath.”

“Precisely what I was thinking, I thank you, Rosie.” Finn beams at his wife, and she smiles back; it is interesting to see two people so in love from the perspective of outsider, Poe wonders, and he wonders if this is how he and Rey appear to others, as if there were almost a tangible, physical connection between them that was unbreakable, undeniable. Finn frowns though, and Poe is required to redirect his attention towards his guest for there appears to be something else on his mind. “But I do not mean merely our sudden appearance beleaguering her as hostess. I gather from what she said upon our arrival that you know of what happened in the north?”

“Aye,” Poe nods, but sends a concerned glance over at Rose, who does not know the particulars of the assault; he understands married couples should have no secrets, but if Rose does not know, he would prefer to keep this private for it is Rey’s secret, not his, not Finn’s. “She told me.”

“If it is acceptable to the gentlemen, I think I shall retire, maybe inquire after Mrs. Dameron’s health?” Rose stands, and Poe stands with her, bowing. Finn takes her hand and kisses it delicately, and Rose pats her husband on the cheek and bows to Poe as well. “I look forward to seeing you at breakfast, Commander, and thank you again for having us.” Rose exits the room gracefully, and Poe sits down with an air of total gratitude. 

“My wife told me of what happened to her some time into our marriage,” Poe says, drumming his fingers upon his knee, trying to release some pent-up anxiety. "The agony it caused her - it has often kept me awake at night, wondering at the circumstances, if no one had been there to help her." He shakes his head against the idea, feels tears well in his eyes. He never would have met her; she might have been...

He is spared from the misery of his thoughts by Finn. "She handled herself remarkably well in the situation," Finn says thoughtfully. "The man's size was the only reason she required help in the first place. Miss Kenobi - sorry, Mrs. Dameron - is strong, and I cannot tell you how satisfying an image it was when she broke the scoundrel's nose."

"I can imagine," Poe says honestly. 

Finn frowns, a strange expression on his handsome, typically cheerful face. "I do think though, that having me appear without any warning distressed her, Poe. Reasonably so. I was the only person with her in the days following the attack, and I saw her...I saw her suffer, Poe, in a way no person should suffer." 

Rage threatens to spill out from Poe at the thought of his sunbeam in pain. Finn gives him an apologetic look before shuffling the cards that are still fanned out on the table. He taps the deck against the wood before he speaks again. "When the man was in prison, the rumors only became worse. I was with her at her uncle's house, and I took care of her in the week following the attack. It was like she was a ghost, a shell of her former self. She would not eat without my begging her, and her sleep was plagued with nightmares. I often," and Finn shifts in his seat. "I often slept on the floor near her bed, so she could have someone close when she woke. I can assure you, Commander, that nothing untoward-"

Poe raises his hand, and Finn stops talking, appearing chagrined. "You do not need to assure me," Poe says honestly. He knew Rey to be an innocent when they married, but, "Even if something untoward had happened, Finn, I would not care. I love my wife, and I am happy she had someone kind with her during that time of her life." Poe grips the sides of his chair while he stares into the fire, unseeingly. "You cannot know, the depths of the rage I have felt since I learned how she was treated. The rumors you mentioned followed her here, and people were cruel to her. Nothing, I am sure, compared to the physical cruelty she endured, the cruelty you helped her through - a fact for which you have my earnest, undying thanks - but Finn, I am not a violent man, I have never sought another's pain, but...I wonder if you would help me in my quest to find the man who hurt my wife."

"For justice?" Finn raises his eyebrows, but shifts strangely in his seat. "The man went to prison, Poe."

"Not for justice," Poe snarls, sitting forward suddenly. "Revenge. He disappeared, Finn, after he was released, there was no sign of him no matter where I looked. And God forgive me, but it is impossible for me to live peacefully knowing the man who haunts my wife's nightmares walks this earth. I mean to find him, to challenge him, to-"

"It is done." Finn says this softly, examining the cards still in his palm. 

"I beg your pardon?" Poe looks his friend in the face, and when Finn looks up, he sees fear, anger, but also defiance.

"The man. His name was Teedo, and he was a disrespectful, pathetic cur. I left Rey shortly before she came here to Somerset, to find my Rosie, but when I returned to the north to settle some business, I discovered him in a tavern with other lowlifes. Not only did he insult my wife, he also made remarks regarding the little Kenobi orphan, remarks that were met with laughter, and with my challenge." Finn sets the cards down on the table with a strange finality, and Poe feels his heartbeat roar in his ears. "We met at dawn, and we fired upon each other. He missed. I didn't."

Poe cannot speak, and Finn looks at him sadly. "I do not take lives lightly, but Teedo was not a life that seemed destined to improve this world. He was buried in a pauper's grave, no mention was made to the law, and I quitted that county forever." 

He must speak, now. "Thank you for telling me," Poe says with great honestly. "I thank you, truly. And I do not think less of you, Finn for what you did. It is - it is greatly comforting to know that man no longer takes breath. I do not think God himself would judge you for the outcome of that duel, and I am glad that was the outcome."

Finn nods, but then says, "Perhaps it is for the best if you tell Mrs. Dameron of the outcome."

"I agree," Poe smiles at his friend and then picks up the abandoned cards. "I will tell her when the time is right. Until then, let us not dwell on the past. Rummy?"

**

***

Rey decides that she adores having guests in her home; specifically, she decides that she adores Rose and Finn Tico. Other than Jyn Erso-Andor, she has never met another woman who she gets along so well with when compared to Rose. Within a fortnight they are declared “as thick as thieves” by both Finn and Poe, and they often walk the grounds together, whispering and laughing at their husbands’ ridiculous antics.

Once, Poe tries to climb a tree to fetch an apple for Rey while he and Finn intercept them on a stroll; he ends up juggling four at once, perched on a branch, with Rey and Rose dissolving into fits of laughter when Finn attempts to climb the tree as well and almost falls flat on his face. 

“Not as easy as rigging, is it, Mr. Tico?” Rose teases him, and Finn harumphs with great gusto, his supposed irritation delightfully undercut by the smile that spreads across his face as he remains sprawled out on the ground. Poe leaps down from his perch shortly after that and presents the fruits to Rey with a deep, flourished bow. 

“For my lady,” he says grandly, and Rey curtsies in return, holding out the skirt of her dress to collect the apples. They gather a few more, and Rey brings them into the house to make into a tart; she and Rose are neither accomplished cooks nor bakers, but Finn has propensity for it, which he demonstrates to the delight of the ladies, Commander Dameron, and the kitchen staff. 

While the original idea of hosting guests had caused her such intense anxiety, Rey settles into the role of mistress of Yavin with greater ease, to the point where Poe kisses her soundly for it one night, praising her ability to keep conversation flowing well between Ben, Han, and Leia Solo and their guests at the night’s dinner. 

“You do uncommonly well,” Poe sighs happily, kissing her lightly while they prepare for bed. “I could not have ever imagined a better wife, a more perfect woman.”

“You do not possess much of an imagination then,” Rey teases him while he pulls the covers around them, but her words only make Poe frown.

“I wish,” he begins haltingly, his hand stroking up and down her back while he holds her in their bed. “I wish you would not be so severe upon yourself, my sunbeam. Truly, if you did not possess a gift for hosting guests or running a household, I would not love you any less. I merely wish to compliment you on your natural graces and the accomplishments you have worked so hard to obtain. It…” he clears his throat and lowers his eyes. “I love you so much, Rey, and it wounds me to hear you speak ill of yourself.”

They have, of course, discussed the sources of anxiety that led to her faint the day the Ticos arrived, and Poe had nearly cried when she said she thought he would find her lacking as hostess. He looks close to tears again, her strange husband, so Rey leans in to kiss him with tender reassurance, a kiss he returns swiftly. 

“I am sorry, Poe,” Rey says softly. “But can you blame me for still thinking it remarkable, here in the sixth month of our marriage, that you should ever have chosen a lost, wild girl from the north as your bride?”

A tear does escape her husband’s eye, and she lifts a hand to smooth it away, leaving her fingers woven through the whiskers that frame his handsome face. Poe’s hand wraps around her wrist, and he turns his face in order to provide a row of tender yet forceful kisses into the thin skin there, and the thicker skin of her palm. Rey shivers, and it has nothing to do with the cold December air. 

“You bewitched me that night at Crait,” Poe whispers into the small, diminishing space between them. He curves his body closer to hers, takes his hand away from her wrist to drape it over her waist, pull her into him. Their noses cannot be more than an inch apart as he says, “The moment I saw you, I was unable to want another, to even see another - your beauty bewitched me, Rey, your wit intrigued me, your spirit ensnared me, and the goodness and purity of your heart, this most perfect heart,” he brings his hand up to rest over her chemise, “caused me to discover such ardent, implacable love that I never wished to be parted from you. I understand the circumstances of your life have led you to believe yourself undeserving of praise, of love, of peace, but I assure you, my sweet sunbeam, I shall spend the rest of my days convincing you that my love for you is more unshakable than a mountain, and deeper than the seven seas.”

Rey blushes, blushes in her marriage bed in a way she has not since their wedding night, but she finds a spark inside of herself that allows her to say in a voice far more coy than she feels:

“And what do you propose, then? To convince me.”

Poe’s warm brown eyes soften with a pleased, loving smile, and Rey’s own eyes close in response to the kiss he bestows upon her. 

“I may only be a lowly sailor, whose imagination could never parallel your own, but allow me to suggest the following,” he murmurs, kissing her again while he moves to hover over her.

Rey Dameron must admit that her husband’s suggestions are powerfully persuasive, indeed. 

***

Some three weeks into their visit, Rose demonstrates a sort of anxiety that Rey knows all too well: one born of indolence, of the less-intriguing requirements of the upper society they have both found themselves in. 

"I do apologize," Rey sighs while they sit indoors when Ben, Poe, and Finn have retired upstairs to discuss something or other regarding ships. Rose had begged herself off from the conversation - apparently she had 'enough conversations about boats to fill a lifetime, thank you' - and was now draped over a couch with extreme dramatics. "There is not much for ladies to do in society."

Rose sits more upright and examines Rey with a look she has come to associate with great mischief. "Well," the smaller woman says with a smile. "My husband tells me you are a great swordswoman, Mrs. Dameron." 

"He does?" Rey blushes, remembering how she and Finn used to practice with weaponry before and after Uncle Ben's death. "He is too kind. It has been nearly six years since I held a blade." Regretfully. Rey often misses the long saber her uncle had given her, misses the weight and security of it in her palm. She no longer has callouses, even, from holding a weapon. Her hands are almost smooth now, a fact she finds both pleasant and irritating. 

"Do you have a reason now for not practicing?" Rose seems to blush, which intrigues Rey. Rose is terribly bold, so it must be a strange thing to make her blush. "I apologize for the frankness, but your faint three weeks past - was it caused by a certain...condition?"

She gestures at Rey's midriff, and Rey smiles with the sudden understanding. "No, the doctor had much the same thought as you, but was able to rule it out during the examination. I am not in that condition currently." No matter how much she might wish to be; no matter how much her dreams of late have turned to visions of a curly-haired child in her arms. 

"Well then: let us duel, Mrs. Dameron!" Rose challenges her cheerfully.

Rey raises her eyebrows at her friend. "I do not have a weapon, Mrs. Tico." 

"Your husband does." Her smile is truly mischievous now, and Rey blushes. "I have my cutlass, and Commander Dameron has a ceremonial sword. I know this because I salvaged it for him from his ship before it sank." 

Rey knows the sword, and the story Rose references. She also knows that the sword hangs in Poe's study, two doors away from this very room. She feels a small doubt curl in her stomach, but Rose looks so excited at the prospect.

She wants to be a good hostess, and her guest has expressed an interest in an activity that is well within her capabilities to provide the means to.

The women end up in the gardens, swords flashing in the late morning sun, laughing and sweating in equal measure while they thrust, parry, duck, and guard for nearly half an hour.

The impropriety, no matter how invigorating, had not gone unnoticed by her husband, however.

“I spied you in the garden with Mrs. Tico today, my sunbeam.” Poe smiles at her in their private drawing room after lunch. 

Rey blushes in embarrassment. “I – I am sorry to have borrowed your sword, Commander, I just –“

“I thought,” Poe murmurs, stepping closer to her and resting a hand on her waist, “I had entreated you to not call me commander when we were alone, and you thought yourself in trouble.”

Rey nods, and bites her lip, feeling very shy. It is strange – she has not felt shy in her husband’s presence for months now. “I am sorry, Poe – I have not held a sword since I came from the north, but Mrs. Tico is a skilled swordswoman, and I was eager to practice again.”

“Would you want to practice with me?” She is all astonishment at her husband’s peculiar request. He seems entirely in earnest, however, so she has no choice but to take his question in a level of seriousness that might have been out of her reach without his intense expression.

“I suppose,” Rey answers nervously.

“I request that we do not use my ceremonial swords.” Poe smiles at her, and the corners of his eyes wrinkle with his typical affability. “I do not mind that you borrowed it, sunbeam, but I must admit it gave me pause to see you using a weapon that could actually cause your person harm.” Rey sincerely doubts she or Rose could have caused injury to each other – given that they are both rather talented with said weapons – but she knows not to question Poe’s intense, persistent interest in her well-being. “I have swords for fencing, though, that would not cause any injury if caught upon our persons.”

Rey nods.

They end up in a cleared room on the ground floor of Yavin, Rey in men's clothing (and she noted with no small interest the way her husband's eyes darkened when she appeared in shirt and trousers), both holding practice swords with blunted tips.

Poe bows to her, which she returns in style, and he laughs lightly before assuming a relaxed stance. Rey regards his form, and considers her own personal store of knowledge regarding Poe's body - his left side more sensitive than the right, his back often still sore from the explosion of his ship last winter, the favoring of his right knee over his left - and he smiles at her examination of his person. 

"Please, do take mercy on me," he implores her cheekily, and Rey smirks at him, briefly weighing the weapon in her hand before lashing out with little warning. His blade crosses with her own, and Poe barely had to move to do it. She huffs in annoyance, and quickly darts away before he can reciprocate. They circle each other after that, their blades sometimes crossing. Rey knows her advantage is her light frame - Poe is not a tall man, but he is muscular, burly, in a way that never fails to make her throat feel dry - and her speed, and Poe's advantage is his obvious depth of skill and training. His footwork is admirable, but she sees that he is slower to turn left, just as she thought. Rey takes advantage of this observation when she pretends to lunge left, and while he moves to guard himself, she spins and pivots to his right, lightly tapping him on the ribcage for a point in her favor.

“Excellent feint,” Poe’s smile is infectious, the skin of his cheeks flushed in a manner she has only seen in their marriage bed. Rey has in the past considered that perhaps their coupling could be considered a form of exercise, especially given the enthusiasm with which Poe often supplies himself.

He is incredibly handsome, and while they practice, Rey finds herself watching his form more than her own; the way his muscles play underneath his shirt and trousers, the width of his muscular thighs (the expanse of which she has often measured with both mouth and fingers), and she misses an easy sweep and finds herself backed into the corner.

“Do not let your enemy distract you,” Poe scolds her, pressing her up against the wall. Rey shifts and scowls up at him, unhappy with the dirty trick. She opens her mouth to scold him, but his hips move slightly, and she feels the evidence of his true interest in their proceedings, and her understanding of the situation changes.

“Commander Dameron,” Rey says cheekily. “I thought you said we would not fence with real weapons.” She twists her body in his hold in a manner that has solicited great success in the past. Poe surrenders to her ministrations with a groan, and he drops his hold on her wrist to cup her cheek and swoop in for an urgent kiss. Rey smiles into it, pleased to have won. When Poe parts from her, gasping, she raises the blade once more, so the tip just barely taps him on the chin.

“I yield,” Poe groans and kneels in front of her. Rey gasps when he rests his head against her middle, watches his shoulders heave while he pants for breath, whimpers when he strokes circles into her exposed calves. “Please, my sunbeam – I must—” Rey throws her saber to the side and pulls on his shoulders until he rises, grabs her wrists, and pins them against the wall behind her. His assault on her mouth is almost violent, and Rey feels her body respond as if it were a finely tuned instrument; her husband, its skilled player.

“Commander,” Rey whispers as he presses a line of bruising kisses into the column of her throat. He bites at the thin skin over her collarbone, and her hands itch to fly to his broad shoulders; Poe does not relent in his tight hold of her wrists though, and she fairly writhes against the wall, trying to seek further contact with him. He seems to purposefully tilt his hips in a direction opposite to her movements, and Rey almost sobs from the frustration of it all. “Commander –  _ Poe,  _ Poe, please, please I must touch you.”

“If you must,” Poe growls releasing her immediately. Rey quickly grabs at him, trying to seal their bodies together, and her clever husband slots his leg in between hers, mercifully providing a platform for her sex to rest upon. He moves his thigh in time with the swiveling motion of her hips, and Rey gasps and sobs in equal measure as he drives her towards an impossibly high peak, given that they are both still incredible clothed. “I do enjoy the access your current dress provides me,” Poe admits, ducking in quickly to kiss her neck. To demonstrate, his large hand grasps her bound breast over her shirt, and Rey scowls at how easily her body responds.

Not to be outdone, she reaches down and places her hand firmly over his now entirely engorged member. “I do believe your triumph in this matter is misplaced, Commander,” Rey says solemnly. “I think you will find you are equally at my mercy as I am at yours.”

“I cannot contest that,” Poe agrees. “Nor do I wish to. Now, my darling wife, if you do not wish to be taken up against this wall,” Rey feels her flush increase at his words and the way he presses forward with a salacious grin, “We should retire to our bedchambers.” He releases her at long last, and Rey smooths out her shirt and pants, smirking as her husband does the same.

“Our sport is far from over,” Rey reminds him. “For now you shall have to catch me.”

“I beg your pardon?” Poe smiles at her. “I think I have already caught you, my sunbeam.” Rey feints for his side with an open hand, and Poe ducks out of the way, swearing in surprise. She takes the opening and sprints for the door, throwing it open and directing her flying feet towards the staircase. His shout of elation merely buoys her, and she tears up the flight of stairs as if she had the winged footwear of Hermes himself.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Kalonia!” Rey cries as she dodges the elderly mistress. Not five seconds later, she hears Poe thunder up the stairs after her. 

“Pardon me, Mrs. Kalonia!” He shouts, and Rey squeals with equal parts thrill and delight from his proximity. She wills her feet to move faster, but she know her husband to be swift and strong - and that knowledge alone makes her blood pound in her ears - so it is to God and Apollo and Nike she prays while sprinting for their door. 

She is sure Mrs. Kalonia shouts some reproach at them, but she will have to ask for its repetition later for her victory is in sight, she merely needs to cross the threshold and barricade the door against her pursuer - 

Poe darts in directly after her, so closing the door is no longer an option - she spins to face him, and he is laughing uproariously as he reaches out for her waist. He kicks the door shut behind him at the same time Rey grabs at his hands, wraps them around herself, and their laughter does not in the least fade while they tumble to the bed. Poe undoes the buttons of her borrowed pants with his teeth, and Rey laughs while she moans in wanton delight - Poe acquaints himself with her quim with his usual vigor, and Rey buries her hands in his hair while he attends to her weeping sex - Poe climbs back up her body, barely taking the time to even unbutton his own trousers and remove his cock, to run his hands up and under her shirt to grip a breast, before he thrusts into her, causing both of them to groan in a unified voice.

Poe is more urgent than ever, less controlled even than he was when they pretended to be on  _ The Black Beauty,  _ and Rey tries to match his pace with little success. His curls are dampened with sweat, and move gloriously with every thrust of his hips, and Rey’s womb fills with a curious feeling. Poe’s hand is not even at her bud, and she feels herself approach climax rapidly - 

“Please,” she whispers, clinging to his shoulders while surrendering to this swell of passion, “God, Poe, I beg you, keep -” She wails suddenly, a mix of curse and prayer and Poe’s name. 

“Fuck,” Poe drops his head to her shoulder and increases the strength of his grip on her waist and breast - Rey keens the louder, her pleasure prolonged by the rare obscenity in his roughened voice - and he bites down over her shirt. 

“Poe!” Rey is shocked at the animalistic treatment, but thrilled in equal measure, and she feels another crest building inside of her from her surprise. 

“Rey,” he moans, a deep and primal sound from within his chest. “I beg you, touch yourself, let me feel your pleasure once more.” Rey obliges all too happily, and his mouth attends to her neck, her jaw, and the lobe of her ear. He sucks it into his mouth at first, before he nips at the tender flesh, and Rey’s body responds immediately to the sharp, unexpected pain that morphs into pleasure. He finds his release at the same time she does, a drawn out shout of her name as his hips finally still, and in the moments after, Rey can do little more than blink up at him in surprise, her breath catching in her throat, the evidence of their love cooling between them. 

Poe slides out of her, and she whimpers slightly at the loss of his warm length inside her. It is immediately apparent that her husband mistakes the noise for one of pain, for he collapses next to her on the bed, as if he were a puppet whose strings were suddenly cut, and pulls her to him urgently, kissing her hair, her cheeks, running his hands up and down her upper body.

“I am sorry,” he groans. “Please forgive me, my love, my most precious sunbeam,” Poe apologizes over and over again with increasing urgency. “I love you, I am sorry, forgive my beastiliness-”

“Why would I forgive you?” Rey asks, still exhausted from the intensity of her multiple climaxes, unable to discern the cause for her husband’s agony. “What could you have possibly done?”

“I treated you so roughly.” Poe rolls them so he hovers over her, and he kisses the mark he made on her shoulder, the still tender spot on her neck. “I am ashamed of myself -”

“Please, Poe.” Rey places a hand on either cheek, enjoying the scratch of his whiskers against her palms. “My darling, if you are ashamed, then I should be ashamed, for I enjoyed how you treated me immensely.”

“Truly?” Poe breathes. “I did not hurt you? I - I will condemn myself to eternal torment, personally send myself to the Devil if I hurt you, I cannot believe I lost control -”

“I liked it,” Rey laughs, and swiftly leans up to kiss his whiskered cheek. “I very much enjoyed that, Commander.” She purrs his title on purpose, rests a palm against his still-pounding heart, and Poe smiles bashfully, catching her lips in a sweet, loving kiss while he pushes her back down into the mattress. 

They lie together contentedly for an hour before they rise and dress for dinner; Poe presents with a pout when Rey removes the shirt she borrowed from him, but he agrees to tie the sash around her dress regardless. 

“I love you,” he whispers into the curve of her neck. Rey turns her head to kiss his nose quickly.

“I know.” The impertinence earns her a light poke to the ribs, which she giggles and returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry I've been gone so long, I had a very different vision in mind for this story and then I changed my mind and then I panicked so naturally I didn't post anything for two weeks, but I can safely say that this story is now going to be a generally angst-light, fluff-heavy, smut-present cheerful Regency romance. If y'all are okay with that)


	7. Yuletide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poe and Rey attend an assembly together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just unrepentant holiday SMUT that I posted on tumblr, and I figured I could post here (in case , ya know, the website implodes)
> 
> very short chapter, I know!

Rey stands to the side of the assembly at Alderaan and watches the young men and women bow to one another. She finds herself without a partner for this number - her husband, Commander Dameron, had taken his leave of her with a whispered apology some half hour before, and she elected to merely watch the ball, rather than participate in it without her husband nearby.

Doctor Andor had offered his arm to her, but Rey had merrily dismissed his kindness; now, she watches as the handsome man spins in a circle around his lovely wife, Jyn, one of the few women Rey can call friend.

It is a pleasant ball, to be sure, and Rey is thankful her adopted parents, Mr. and Mrs. Han Solo, were so kind as to extend this invitation to the county. A Christmastime assembly is precisely the event that their society needs, and Rey is particularly pleased that the family that has always shown her kindness now extends kindness to all in the county, regardless of social station. 

“Mrs. Dameron?” At the sound of her married name, Rey turns and smiles at Miss Jessika Pava, who is arching an eyebrow at her with a most mischievous smile playing at the bow of her mouth. “I believe your husband wishes to speak to you, near the northern drawing room.”

“Thank you, Miss Pava.” Rey bows politely and excuses herself, slipping through the crowded room to the northern entrance. Once she is in the corridor, the crowd lessens considerably, and Rey can move with much more haste. This swiftness in her gait is only aided by the desire to see her husband; while they have been married for over half a year, Rey cannot quell the constant fire in her breast (and, if she is honest, in other less lady-like places in her body as well) that demands a proximity to her loving husband at all times.

She spies him at the end of the corridor, and she admires his profile as he stands, gazing into the drawing room. He wears his most handsome uniform which highlights the broadness of his form, and his hands are clasped behind his back, gloves firmly in place. The tightness of his breeches only emphasize further the not terribly well-kept secret of the musculature of his thighs, and Rey tries to regain her composure as she nears him.

“Commander Dameron,” Rey addresses him formally, in case there are prying ears or eyes nearby, and he turns to smile at her broadly.

“Wife,” he says serenely, holding a hand out to her. Rey takes it without hesitation, wishing to eliminate the space between them as much as formally possible. “I found something that might be of interest to you.”

“Oh?” Rey arches her brow and follows the direction her husband indicates. A ball of mistletoe hangs in the corner of the doorway, red berries still vividly visible. “Oh.”

“I believe you know the tradition.” Poe is staggeringly handsome in the candlelight, and Rey quickly studies the drawing room; she is greatly thankful to note that they lack an audience. 

“I believe that tradition applies to maidens,” Rey responds with great spirit. She draws nearer to Poe despite her teasing, and she offers him a coquettish smile. “And, I believe you know that I am no maiden, and you made thoroughly sure of that.”

“Still, though,” Poe murmurs, tilting his head with a smile of his own, one that winds pleasantly through her, tightening the coil in her lower stomach. “I should very much like to kiss you.”

“One kiss,” Rey allows, tilting her chin up and towards him. “And then we must return to the party.”

“Two kisses?” Poe implores, his eyes hooded, voice low and seductive. Rey shivers and feels like a maiden in one of her novels, unable to resist the pull of her dark hero. His lips find hers, and he pulls her to his chest, the strength of his arms undeniable and bracing; his heart and its staccato beat are palpable through the thickness of his uniform’s jacket, and he wastes not a single moment in slipping the muscle of his tongue through her willing lips. 

Rey offers a small, highly improper moan in response to Poe’s actions, and her knees weaken, causing her to lean in further to his solid form. “Commander Dameron,” Rey gasps when they finally break apart for air. “We have been away for too long. You may collect your second kiss, and then we should return.”

“Aye,” Poe murmurs, clasping her hands and pulling her into the drawing room. “A second kiss.”

She follows him like he is Orpheus, and she Eurydice, and once they are in the empty dressing room, her husband closes the door firmly behind them. “A single kiss,” Rey reminds him firmly once he returns to her, his hands skating along her figure, causing her to shudder and whimper slightly. “We said but one more.”

“Aye.” Poe leans in and skates his nose down the length of her neck. “But, wife, you did not say where.”

Rey’s back makes contact with the closed door, which rattles with alarming strength. “Commander!” 

“Mrs. Dameron.” He stops and straightens up, his palms pressed to the door on either side of her head. “Will you permit me to make love to you?”

“Y-yes,” Rey gasps, her heart pounding in her chest, fit to break free like a bird trapped in a cage. “But, we must be - what if we are discovered?”

“We will not be discovered,” Poe assures her, dropping a quick but still passionate kiss to her lips. Rey grips his wrists to prolong it, desperate now for her husband’s touch. “But if my wife worries, then we shall remain acceptably dressed, and I will merely find creative ways to bring you pleasure.”

“I surely do not know your meaning,” Rey teases, but Poe merely smirks and sinks to his knees in front of her. He gathers the hem of her skirts in his hand and lifts them slowly, his eyes carrying a smoldering fire as he gazes at her face, watching her reactions hungrily. Stretching upright, he cups her breast through the bodice of her gown, finding her nipple and tweaking it in a way that causes a bolt of lust to course through her. 

“Poe!” She half-shouts, clapping a hand to her mouth so they will not draw attention. 

“Rey,” Poe groans, pulling her skirts up the rest of the way - she catches them with her hand to hold them for him, and he uses his fingers and mouth to tease her cunt, his tongue licking at her delicately, his fingers stroking inside her with his typical shocking skill. 

Her fingers tangle with his hair, and Rey shivers and moans as quietly as she can, as loudly as she dares. It is with a shocking quickness that she climaxes, and she can feel Poe lapping at her eagerly, something that should embarrass her, but instead inflames her further.

Poe rises to his feet with a smirk, wiping his red, wet mouth with the back of his hand. “Was the second kiss satisfactory, my love?” He purrs, and Rey smirks and turns to face the door, her skirts still lifted and held in her hand.

“Yes, husband,” she whispers, cheeks burning. “And I find myself wanting more of you.”

“My sweetest sunbeam.” There is the unmistakable sound of fabric parting, as Poe unbuttons his pants and pulls his cock free; Rey watches hungrily over her shoulder before facing forward. Poe teases her with the head of his cock at first before pushing in and beginning to thrust with quick, forceful jerks of his hips. Rey’s hands slide against the wood of the door, and Poe’s laughter is breathy and heady in her ear.

“Come inside me,” Rey demands in a low voice. “I wish to feel you between my thighs for the rest of the assembly.”

“Oh  _fuck_ ,” Poe comes then, surprising both of them, and Rey feels the intoxication of victory - not to be outperformed, Poe reaches between them and rubs at her bud in the precise manner she finds so delicious until she finds herself moaning in his name, her head thrown back on his shoulder, as she climaxes a second time.

When they re-enter the assembly a quarter of an hour later, her hair back in its perfect state, Poe’s uniform impeccable and not a piece out of place, they resume their places and interact with their friends and family.

But, when Rey looks over to her husband and bites her lower lip, she watches his eyes grow dark once more - he clearly understands what she meant to communicate; that she can feel his spend, thick and sticky, cooling between her thighs, just as she wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i should return to this universe some day!
> 
> maybe a, uh,
> 
>  
> 
> Damerey baby is in store for our favorite regency couple?

**Author's Note:**

> ** POV Change  
> *** Time jump
> 
> Thank you for reading <3 <3 <3


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